


All the Fine Things

by Unfair_Verona



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Blindfolds, Choking, Conspiracy, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Face Slapping, Falling In Love, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Travel, Wine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfair_Verona/pseuds/Unfair_Verona
Summary: Sarkney AU. Who does he think he is? Coming in and taking her job and then deciding that they should be friends? All rich and aggravating, with that accent and those damn blue eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I decided to write another Sarkney story after the last one got way more readers that I thought it would. You guys are great! Anyhow this is going to be a multi-chapter story and I'm having a lot of fun writing it. Please let me know what you think! Oh, and in case anyone doesn't know, 'sommelier' is basically a fancy word for someone who knows a ton about wine. You have to take all these classes and pass certifications to be one and it's super expensive. Anyhow, happy reading!

Sydney straightened her tie, checking in the mirror to make sure that her ponytail was neat and her lipstick wasn't smudged. Dinner service would begin shortly and The Agency was booked solid. This was to be expected considering that they were now the trendy restaurant on the block. Trendy, upscale, and yet wouldn't bankrupt the average guest. The menu items were delicious and inventive, but not off-putting. Sydney liked to think that she'd had a hand in some of their recent success. 

Several months before, Syd had been working at a rival restaurant called SD6, which was owned by a rich cretin named Arvin Sloane. She'd utterly despised the man, and was somewhat delighted when the restaurant had closed indefinitely while Arvin was put through a major audit. There was talk of some criminal investigation going on as well. Luckily, Sydney wasn't out of a job for long. Michael Vaughn, the general manager of The Agency, had been offering her a job for months, and after the closure of SD6 she'd had no reason not to accept. Yet she had conditions: jobs for her friends Dixon and Marshall as well. Michael was perfectly amenable to this; Dixon was a fantastic bartender and Marshall was one of the most talented and imaginative chefs in all of Los Angeles. Vaughn had been making some staff changes within The Agency, so this could not have happened at a better time. 

Yes, everything seemed to be working out nicely. Syd was lead server, always in high demand because of her adaptability and near-encyclopedic knowledge of wine. She was hoping that soon she'd have enough money to pursue her dream of becoming a sommelier. Sydney knew that Michael had talked often about hiring one; he was getting some pressure from The Agency's owner, who wanted the restaurant to cater to a more upscale clientele. She hoped that he would hold off for just a little while longer. 

She smiled at her reflection, mentally preparing herself. In truth, though, Sydney didn't really feel like smiling tonight. It was because of her boss. She and Vaughn had developed a weird chemistry over the past few months; it had begun almost the moment they'd met. Sydney was sure that he had feeling for her, he'd all but admitted as much, yet he also had a policy forbidding managers from dating staff. He was so confusing, so hot and cold, she could never be certain where they really stood with each other, and it was making her miserable. She hadn't been laid in almost a year and if she didn't get some soon she was going to punch a hole through the wall. 

Taking a slow, deep breath Sydney double-checked her apron, making sure she had her lighter and wine key, and then headed into the kitchen for the pre-shift 'pit stop'. All the staff gathered and took notes while Marshall stammered through the menu highlights for the evening, and Sydney hid a smile as he went off a strange tangent about molecular gastronomy when all they needed to know was how to describe the filet with bearnaise sauce. As she jotted down a few notes she couldn't help but notice a new face among them, standing beside Vaughn. He was young, Sydney noticed, his face almost disarmingly boyish. He had tousled blond hair and enormous blue eyes. _Cute_ , she admitted to herself. Her eyes roved over the well-tailored, impeccable suit that he wore. Probably a rich brat though. His demeanor and the impassive look on his face practically screamed money. At that moment, he looked over and caught her eye. Sydney quickly looked away. 

"Thank you, Marshall," Vaughn spoke up loudly, cutting him off. "Now just one more thing, everyone. As of tonight we have a new member of the team. I'd like to introduce The Agency's sommelier, Mr. Julian Sark."

Sydney felt punched in the stomach. Her gaze immediately flew to Vaughn, who shifted uncomfortably under the accusatory look and then turned the other way and began speaking to one of the other servers about something. Oh, they were going to have words later!

Thankfully, the moment she stepped onto the busy floor Sydney felt herself falling easily into the flow of the restaurant. The four tables in her section were all full. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Most of her tables were drinking mixed cocktails or IPAs. Her latest table, a five-top, was her least favorite. The party consisted of three women and two men, all middle aged, and they had that stuffy, superior nature that set her teeth on edge. After she'd introduced herself and inquired about beverage orders, of course they'd wanted a bottle of wine. "A red from the Southern Rhone Valley, I think," the man was saying. Sydney nodded. "We have a very nice selection of--"

"Dear, I think you'd better fetch the sommelier for us," one of the women cut her off. She'd had so much work done that Sydney was amazed that she could move her mouth at all. Desperately wanting to say something but also desperately wanting money, Sydney bit her tongue, remembering the cardinal rule of serving: the answer is always yes. She plastered a smile on her face. "Of course ma'am. Right away."

Face burning, Sydney stalked over to the bar. "What's the matter, Sunshine?" Dixon asked. "Later," she mumbled, spotting the somm at the other end, examining a bottle of Cabernet. What was his name--Stark or something? 

"Stark, call," she said dispassionately. He looked over at her, then set the bottle down and approached with aggravating slowness. "It's Sark," he corrected, and she noticed that he spoke with an accent. "But call me Julian." 

"Sark's fine. Listen, table forty-three, the Dower party, they want a red from the Southern Rhone Valley."

He stared at her for a moment that seemed too-long for Sydney's liking, then nodded at her. "I'll see to it," he said. 

Gritting her teeth, she walked back to the kitchen in time to hear the sous chef call for service. After delivering the entrees to one of her other, more pleasant tables, she then lingered in the alcove and watched the brat recommend wine to the snotty five top. Sydney had to grudgingly admit that he knew what he was doing. He was elegant, and also good at reading the table. The ladies were eyeing him up like he was candy. He shot them a dazzling grin and walked back to the bar. She wanted to wait and see what he would return with, but she needed to get back to work. 

Finally, the evening wore down and only a few tables remained, finishing their drinks. The five-top at least had the decency to tip her well. They seemed to really enjoy the wine that Sark had brought for them, a Grenache noir from the Chateaneuf du Pape region. This selection both surprised and irritated Sydney, mainly because it was almost exactly what she would have recommended, right down to the vintage. Now that she was less busy, all of her earlier hurt returned with a vengeance. Why would Vaughn hire a somm without even telling her? Especially since he knew about her goals. Even if he was under pressure from the owner, he could have at least talked to her about it face to face, not let her find out during pit stop. She thought that they were closer than that. 

She finished her side work and then checked out for the night. Normally she hung out and waited for Dixon and Marshall to finish up and then the three went out for a beer, but now she just felt like going home. 

After collecting her purse from her locker, Sydney made her way to the back door, trying to make a quick exit. Just as she pushed it open, she heard a voice behind her. "Leaving so soon?" She recognized the cool accent. Fighting a sigh, she turned around and saw Sark standing there.

 _What's it to you?_ She wanted to snap, but she attempted at civility. "Yeah," she said through a tight smile. "It's been a long night, I'm beat." 

"It's Sydney, right?" he asked. She nodded. 

"Michael Vaughn told me that you have an interest in wine, that you're very knowledgeable."

"Well, not knowledgeable enough, apparently," she said, a sharp edge creeping into her voice. So much for being civil. 

Sark merely blinked at her and stared in that unnerving way, his mouth curved upwards in a half-smile. "Sydney, I hope that you don't have any ill-feelings towards me because of my position. I'd like for us to work together. I think that we can be of value to one another."

"Uh, thanks," she said, feeling a bit thrown. He seemed genuine, not condescending at all, and somehow this irritated her even more. Plus...he really was cute. She nodded at him and then turned back to the door. "Have a pleasant night, Sydney," he said softly as she departed.


	2. Chapter 2

The next night Sydney was still in somewhat of an irate mood but she tried her best to shake it off. Luckily, she was adept at compartmentalizing; she packed all her hurt and irritation away, stuffing it into a corner of her mind. Sydney looked at her job as a kind of mission, or at the very least an acting opportunity. Each table created a need for her to be someone else. She had learned to read her customers and adjust her performance accordingly. Sometimes she played the coquette or the wide-eyed ingenue. Other times she was the intellectual, or the sassy, quick-witted dynamo. All aspects of her own personality amplified and given their moment to reign supreme. This was why both her sales and tip averages were higher than anyone else's. 

Before she went into work she had gone over her notes on the wine list once more, making sure that she had it completely memorized, as well as the recommended food pairings. She was going to prove to Vaughn that she knew just as much, if not more, about wine as his new somm. She felt better now, brighter, joking with the back of house and smiling. Her first two tables were easy: nice personalities, straightforward orders, excellent tippers. 

Happily, she'd managed to avoid Sark for the first hour or so, but then she spotted him a few tables away, just as she was delivering a plate of oysters Rockefeller. He turned, then, and paused, simply watching her. Just then, two of her co-workers nearly had a collision behind her; one bumped the other as she was carrying a tray of several different sized glasses, all full. Without even thinking, Sydney caught the tray with one hand, steadying it before it fell and righting the waitress with the other. The girl looked at Sydney gratefully, mouthing 'thank you!' Then she quickly composed herself, and went on her way. 

Sydney's table clapped. She grinned and gave them a theatrical little bow. Then, out of the corner of her eye she noticed Sark still watching her intently, that curious smile on his lips again. He seemed impressed, inclining his head towards her in a nod of acknowledgement. She merely shrugged at him as if to say 'it's nothing', then turned and headed back to the kitchen.

Marshall was sputtering about something, in the midst of an argument with one of the pantry staff. Sydney suppressed a sigh, she was used to calming him down; Marshall was such a sweetie but he tended to get easily agitated when it came to his creations. 

"What is it, what's going on?" she asked, stepping in and putting a hand on his arm. 

"Syd, he can't seem to understand the concept of proper plating or timing. Everything is specifically tailored to be coursed a certain way, and he just pushes out these salads and they're _sloppy_ , he forgets the fermented radishes--the radishes are what make the salad, the fermentation gives it a probiotic effect--"

"Marshall, it's ok," she soothed. "I'm sure he'll slow down and take his time and not forget the radishes again, right?" Sydney eyed the other man with a look that was half-pleading, half threatening. 

"Right," he relented, a bit grudgingly. 

"Good," said Sydney, letting go of Marshall's arm, wondering what other crises she'd have to avert this evening. As she moved to pick up a charcuterie board, Sark abruptly appeared right beside her. 

"Jeez, creep much?" Sydney demanded. 

He smiled in reply. "I like to think of it as being stealthy. If I might have a moment of your time?"

"Ok, but make it quick," she said, then winced internally at her rudeness. Something about him just seemed to bring it out of her. 

"I'll endeavor to," he assured her dryly. "That table you just delivered the Oysters to, they flagged me down as I was walking by and inquired about an inexpensive white that would pair well with their seafood."

"...And?" Sydney was getting mildly impatient. 

"And I was wondering if you had any particular recommendations. It is your table, after all."

Thrown for a moment, Syd blinked. "Well...I would recommend a Sauvignon Blanc, maybe Giesen or Kim Crawford. Very inexpensive but nicely balanced."

Sark nodded. "Excellent. It'll go well with the oysters. I must confess, I love oysters."

Pulling a face, Sydney said, "I don't."

He smirked. "Don't care for the taste?"

"It's not the taste, per se, it's the texture. And it just seems like a cheat to me, swallowing this nasty little bit of gunk and then getting nothing but a mouthful of sea water for your troubles."

The smirk grew wider. "Ah, but don't you love that burst of saltiness at the end, the way it hits your tongue? So fresh and raw." 

She noticed that the color of his eyes had deepened to a darker azure and against her will she felt a strange heat begin to course through her blood, circling and then coming to rest and pool in her lower belly. 

"An acquired taste, to be sure," he finished. "And supposedly an aphrodisiac."

She gave a snort. "I never understood that. I think it's a myth. A long con to sell oysters. People wouldn't eat them unless they thought they'd be getting lucky."

He laughed, then, and it made him look even younger. "Oh, Sydney," he said. "Sauvignon Blanc it is."

As he was walking away, Sydney couldn't help but notice that he had a _very_ nice ass. 

 

The evening flew by and soon she sensed the palpable shift in energy that announced the night was drawing to a close. Vaughn stepped into the back just as Sydney was printing out the check for one of her tables. 

"Syd, you're cut," he told her. She couldn't help but feel a little miffed at this; they'd still be seating for the next 20 minutes. She'd rather make the money while she could. Perhaps sensing this, Vaughn said, "I cut you a little early because I'd like to speak with you."

Once, Sydney would have been elated about having one on one time with Michael Vaughn, but now it just filled her with an odd, empty feeling. Not dread, but somewhere in that vicinity.

"Ok," she agreed.

"Don't sound so excited." Vaughn tried at lightheartedness, but it fell flat. It seemed that whatever spark, whatever chemistry they'd once had, was now dulled considerably. "It's nothing bad," he mumbled.

Vaughn waited patiently while Sydney dropped off and then collected the check from her table and then he escorted her into one of the private dining rooms. After a moment of strained silence, Vaughn began, "I just wanted to make sure that you were ok with the changes I've made. I know that you want to be a sommelier, and I'm sure that you will achieve that very soon. You're a fantastic employee and I truly value you, Sydney." He paused, then continued, "I would have been fine with you being my in-house wine expert, but Kendall insisted that I hire Sark. It wasn't my choice."

Sydney nodded. "I understand that," she said evenly. "It's...it isn't so much that you hired him, it's that you didn't tell me first. I had thought we were closer than that. Maybe I was wrong." She stood and moved to leave.

Vaughn looked crestfallen. "Syd..."

"It's fine, Michael, it really is," she said, giving him a faint smile. "No hard feelings." She walked away without looking back at him.

 

Since she was cut, Sydney began her closing side work. As she stood in the narrow aisle between the kitchen and dining room doors, she aggressively polished silverware while trying not to seethe about Vaughn. She was beginning to wonder what she'd seen in him; he was rapidly becoming less and less attractive to her.

Slamming a fork down, she turned as she heard approaching footsteps. 

"Everything alright, Sydney?" asked Sark with a raised eyebrow. 

"Perfectly fine," she lied.

He nodded, clearly not believing her. Silence descended then, almost intolerable, and he fixed her with one of his intense looks. What was with this guy always watching her, like he was trying to peer inside of her mind? Sydney suppressed the urge to squirm; his attention made her feel strange, though not in an entirely unpleasant way. 

"So, that table really liked the Sauvignon Blanc," she said, attempting at conversation. 

"Oh yes, they were quite happy with it," he agreed. "Thank you again for your input."

Sydney rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you could have figured it out just fine on your own. You don't need to patronize me, Sark. I'm really fine with you working here."

He shook his head. "Sydney, I don't want to patronize you, and I certainly don't pity you. I was given this job because I'm extremely qualified. I believe that you are also, that's why I asked for your opinion. Had you suggested something ridiculous that showed no knowledge, I would never ask again, but you didn't. You're very talented, and I would like for us to be able to work together, as I said before. Perhaps we can learn from each other."

"What could you possibly learn from me?" Sydney asked warily. 

"How to catch a falling tray of full glasses without spilling a drop?" he offered with a smile. 

She found herself almost smiling back. "That was just luck."

"I've seen you before, you know," he told her, moving a little closer, close enough that she could smell cologne and linen and wine. "When you worked at SD6. I was there several times; I had some business with Arvin Sloane."

Upon hearing her former boss' name, Sydney made a face. 

Sark laughed. "I quite agree. And I couldn't help but notice you, you have a great deal of poise."

"Thank you," she said, feeling a bit disarmed by the unexpected compliments. 

Sark held out his hand. "Partners?"

After a half-second of contemplation, Sydney took it. "Partners," she agreed. His hand was warm and a strange little frisson of electricity ran through her at the touch.


	3. Chapter 3

After getting home that evening, Sydney changed into her pjs and then sank down onto the sofa with a grateful sigh. She wasn't scheduled to work brunch the next day, which was Sunday, and The Agency was always closed on Mondays, so she had a nice little weekend of sorts to look forward to. She'd certainly earned it. Her feet ached. Maybe she'd treat herself to a pedicure.

Flipping on the TV, Sydney looked at the stack of note cards on the table, then shook her head. No, she could study tomorrow; tonight she needed to relax. She'd been too tightly wound lately. It was caused by a combination of factors, but really much of it boiled down to sexual frustration. She hadn't had sex in almost eight months, not since her ex-boyfriend Danny. Naturally, Sydney had been hoping that she and Vaughn....but she doubted that was a possibility anymore. 

She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, trying to will some of the tension to drain from her muscles. For whatever reason, she kept remembering her handshake with Sark. Sydney couldn't quite figure him out. There was an alarming sincerity to him that she hadn't expected, even so, on some level he still annoyed her. But there was something about the way he spoke to her, looked at her, like he was fascinated. More confusing, still, was the fact that she didn't mind it.

 

The next day Sydney slept in and then kicked around the apartment for awhile, finally finishing the novel she'd been attempting to read for several months. After that she went for a long run, showered, and decided it was time for a nice latte. Running a comb through her wet hair, she put on track pants and a t-shirt and headed down the street to the local coffee shop. 

After purchasing her beverage, she glimpsed a familiar face seated at a table a few feet away. It was Julian Sark. He was talking on a cell phone, frowning. His tone sounded a bit terse. Then he abruptly hung up on whomever was on the other end. Looking over, he spotted her standing there, his expression brightening immediately. 

"Sydney Bristow," he said, "how are you? Please, sit." He gestured to the empty chair across from his. 

"Uh, ok," she said, taking a seat, feeling quite underdressed next to Sark, who looked impeccable as usual in grey pants and a light blue button down that enhanced the color of his eyes. 

"Enjoying your day off?" he asked. Sydney nodded and took a sip of her latte. "Yeah, I got some reading done, went running." It was strange having a casual conversation with him outside of work. "I should probably study later on, though," she continued. "Usually my roommate Francie quizzes me, but she's out of town."

Sark nodded. "Well, I could help you, if you like," he offered. 

Raising an eyebrow, Sydney considered this offer. He did know a lot about wine. In fact, he'd probably be the perfect person to help her and yet...she had some reservations about it. But really, what could it hurt? she decided. And she was trying to behave more civilly towards him, they'd agreed to a tentative partnership of sorts, so this was probably a step in the right direction. 

"Alright," she replied. "I mean, if you're not busy."

"Not today, thankfully." He smiled. "I'm all yours."

 

Sydney was grateful that she'd remembered to tidy up, so the apartment wasn't a total wreck. While she grabbed a few wine glasses, Sark looked at the books on her shelf. He pulled down an old copy of _The Decameron_ by Boccaccio. She watched as he opened it to the first page, a curious look on his face. His eyes widened slightly, and she assumed that he had found the inscription there.

"Arvin Sloane gave you this?" he asked, looking up at her. 

"Yes, unfortunately," replied Sydney. "For my birthday a few years ago. Not really my style."

Sark closed the book. "He gave me one, also."

"Really? That's weird. But so's Arvin. He probably has a huge stack of them and gives one to everybody."

"Perhaps." He put the book back on the shelf and then asked, "Where do you keep your wine?"

"I have a few whites in the fridge, the reds are on the other shelf over there."

"I'll get them," he said. "Sit down and close your eyes."

Sydney blinked. "What? Why?"

"It'll help, I promise," Sark assured her. "Just trust me."

"Ok," she agreed tentatively, feeling a little strange. She sat on the couch and let her eyelids flutter closed. She could hear him moving around, then the faint sounds of corks being removed from bottles, the pouring of liquid. 

Footsteps moved closer to her, she could smell his cologne. "I want you to concentrate on using your other senses," Sark told her. "Sight can be a distraction at times. And you can study terminology and regions and methods all you want but to really know wine, you need to experience it." 

He picked up one of the glasses and held it right under her nose. "What do you smell?" he asked. 

Sydney breathed in and let the scent fill her nostrils. "Crispness," she answered. "Medium acidity, citrus. Green apples."

"Good," he said, sounding satisfied. Then Sydney felt the glass lightly touch the edge of her lips. A faint shiver ran through her. "Taste," he instructed, and she opened her mouth, feeling the liquid run in. Pinot Grigio, she knew. It flowed over her tongue, sending her palate tingling. Now that she was focusing all of her attention on it, it did taste different, it was more; subtle hints of pear and grapefruit. She swallowed. 

"Open your eyes," he said, and she did. 

"Wasn't that better?" Sark asked. "Facts are important, to be sure, but you needn't get mired in them. At the end of the day, it's about the taste of the wine, how it makes you _feel_."

Sydney was currently _feeling_ that weird tingling sensation again, an electric current somehow moving between them. She quickly took another sip. Sark looked like he was about to say something else and he had shifted just the tiniest bit closer so that their legs were nearly touching, but then his cell rang. 

A scowl crossed his face. "Yes?" He answered it curtly, getting up from the couch. Sydney took the opportunity to regain her composure, which she felt slipping away. 

She heard him speaking in a raised voice and then he stalked back over to the couch, running a hand through his hair. He did have very soft-looking hair, and Sydney wondered how it would feel under her fingertips. She abruptly chased the thought away with a large sip of wine. 

"What was that about?" she asked with genuine curiosity, wondering who had managed to ruffle his typically cool demeanor. Sark grabbed a glass and poured himself some of the Pinot Grigio. "That," he answered, "was none other than our mutual acquaintance Arvin Sloane."

"Eww."

"Indeed."

"What did he want?"

Sighing deeply, Sark leaned back against the cushions. "He's been wanting me to procure some Milo Rambaldi wines for him."

"He's still on that Rambaldi kick?" Sydney shook her head. "I shouldn't be surprised, he's so obsessive." She only knew a little about Milo Rambaldi, but it was enough to make her dislike him intensely. He'd been an inventor, centuries ago, a supposed genius and, in Sydney's opinion, a bit of a nutcase. He'd owned several vineyards and his collection of wine was legendary. Sloane had talked about the man like he was some kind of god, and she'd never understood the hype. 

"Yes, well, I feel it's gone beyond obsession at this point. He wants what are known as the Horsemen Bottles, so named for the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Four separate and distinct vintages: one from a year of plague, a year of famine, and so on. They're more of a legend, really, however there are certain...avid collectors, like Sloane, who believe that they do exist, and want to have them."

"And he wants _you_ to get them for him?" Sydney asked doubtfully. "What makes him think you can do that?"

Sark grinned at her. "Dear Sydney, you underestimate me," he said with a shake of his head. He swirled the wine in his glass. "I happen to have very good connections. However, I too have my doubts that the Horsemen Bottles exist anymore, if in fact they ever did at all. I've been trying to tell Sloane this for months, but naturally he doesn't seem to be listening." Sark set the glass down on the table then reached for a bottle of red. "Malbec," he said, inspecting the label. "Not bad."

"I have a budget," Sydney told him, shrugging. "I really wish I could spend more, but I can't right now."

"Price isn't everything," said Sark. "That's only one small factor."

Sydney shifted on the couch and tilted her head to the side. "What's the most you've ever spent on a bottle of wine?"

"For myself?" He considered the question. "Around $3,000, roughly."

She choked. "On _one_ bottle?"

He held up his hands. "Yes, but to be fair, it was a very good year."

"And it's probably sitting in your fancy wine cellar, collecting dust." Sydney rolled her eyes.

"It's biding its time," Sark corrected her. 

"I'll bet you're never gonna drink that."

"I am. Just not yet."

She grabbed her glass from the table and took another long sip from it. "The thing that always bugged me about Sloane was, he just needed to have all this rare stuff just for the sake of having it. It wasn't enough to just know that it existed or admire it from afar. He's like...a dragon hoarding treasure, or something."

Sark laughed at the analogy and Sydney went on. "If, by some miracle he could get those...Rambaldi apocalypse wines, or whatever they are, he'd never be able to drink them. They'd literally be vinegar by now, or worse. So what's the point, really?"

Sark moved a little closer. "Sydney, you think about these things logically and rationally, whereas wealthy collectors don't. See, you believe that wine is something to be enjoyed, not hoarded. Arvin doesn't. There's a kind of emptiness in him that fuels his obsessions. He'll never be satisfied."

"Well, he's missing out," Sydney decided, draining her glass. 

 

They didn't really study the way that she usually did, the flash cards went largely ignored; it was more of a free-flowing discussion. Sark talked about vineyards all over the world that he'd been to, years and vintages, storms and drought and eccentric winemakers and collectors both. Finally, Sydney looked at the clock. "Wow, it's almost eleven!"

"So it is," he said. "I suppose I should be going." He did not, however, move to get up.

"I suppose," Sydney echoed.

There was a small and fleeting moment of hesitation and then he closed the distance between them and brought his warm lips softly against hers. Sydney was struck still at first, but then felt herself responding, even as an alarm bell sounded in her head. _What the hell was she doing? How had she gone from hating the brat to kissing him in only a few days time? And what about Vaughn?_

_Forget him_ , answered another part of her mind. _He never kissed you. He never came over and talked to you and fed you wine. He doesn't have the same old book as you, given by the same insane old man_. 

No, there was a connection between her and Sark, though Sydney battled against it. And she continued to battle even as the kiss deepened and his tongue found its way into her mouth and brushed against hers, even as her fingers tangled in his hair, which was every bit as soft as she'd imagined.

He released her mouth and then kissed a path along the side of her neck, intermittently scraping her with his teeth, making her shudder. He seemed pleased at this response and slid a hand up under her shirt, inside her bra, and closed over her breast.

She made a weird muffled sound, half in protest, half in encouragement. "Sydney," he breathed, "do you want me to stop?"

Did she? Her head was spinning. It felt like she was underwater. He pinched her nipple, as if prompting her to respond. She still didn't answer but she arched into the touch, giving a low moan. His hand left her breast and slid lower, down her toned stomach and beneath the waistband of her track pants, skimming the edge of her underwear. "Sydney?" he tried again, voice thicker.

"Sark, shut up," she groaned, rocking against his hand. He pushed the silk and lace aside and his fingers found her, gently playing with her clit until her eyes rolled back in her head. God, it had been so long... 

Her body jerked in a spasm as he slid back further, probing at her opening before thrusting two long fingers inside. "Fuck!" she exclaimed, as he began to stroke her, pumping them in and out, each time getting closer to that spot she knew would put her over the edge. She needed this, needed to come so badly...

"That's it," he whispered hotly against her neck, "let go."

There it was, then; his fingers curved at exactly the right angle and shattered her, making her cry out and clutch around him, rocking her hips as she rode out the waves of pleasure. "Good girl," he praised.

As her orgasm ebbed and then finally ended, coherency returned with a vengeance, trampling her. She watched as he withdrew his hand from her pants and then lazily brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean with a very self-satisfied look on his face.  
Heat jolted through her, warring with the common sense that she had regained. Her head spun again. This was so wrong. What was she thinking? 

Perhaps seeing the stricken look on her face, he asked, "Sydney?"

She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. "Sark..."

His expression grew a little colder. "Call me Julian."

Sydney shook her head again, pulled away from him, from the intimacy they'd just shared, from the talking and the companionship and the wine, from that too-frightening feeling of rightness. 

"I...thank you, for coming over, for...for everything, but...it's just...you have to leave now, I'm sorry," she got to her feet.

"I see," he said. His eyes had now gone completely icy, and the change sent a chill through her. 

"Sorry," she mumbled again. A jumble of emotions threatened to strangle her, and so Sydney walked past him and into her room. A few minutes later, she heard the door slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm trash and I know it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sydney devoted the next day almost entirely to a.) moping and b.) hating herself for said moping. There was a decent amount of chocolate involved, but no wine. She didn't even want to _think_ about wine. 

Her main feat for the afternoon was going out to collect her mail, which contained several bills, and a fancy-looking envelope.

Curious, Sydney opened it and discovered that it was an invitation to a party at the home of none other than Arvin Sloane. God, why couldn't that man just stay out of her life? She'd been to his house before; she was friendly with his wife Emily, but naturally this had been some time ago. She didn't even work for him anymore, it wasn't like they'd ever been best pals, so why invite her? 

Sydney tossed the invitation onto the coffee table and curled up on the couch. Ugh, no good. She could somehow still smell Sark's cologne and it threatened to bring forth the flood of mixed emotions that she'd been trying to hold at bay. First Vaughn and now Sark. She wasn't in high school anymore, for heaven's sake, she really needed to get a hold of herself. 

Yet there was nobody around to pretend or put on a brave face for, no occasion to play a part, and so Sydney turned on the TV, pulled a blanket over herself, and gave up on the rest of the day.

 

Back at work the following evening, Sydney winced in frustration as she stood in front of the mirror in the staff lounge trying to tie her tie. She was very skilled at many things, but a full Windsor was not one of them. Usually she got Dixon to help her but he was busy upstairs with an early drinking crowd that had poured in out of nowhere off the sidewalk. 

Cursing softly, Sydney untied the mangled half-knot. While she was looking down, behind her there came footsteps, then the scent of a familiar expensive cologne, and when she raised her head to look in the mirror, she saw that she wasn't alone. Sark didn't say a word, just stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind, taking hold of the ends of the fabric. He pulled her against him as he silently began tying her tie; Sydney's heart pounded as she felt the firm lines of his body, as she watched his clever fingers forming the knot. His eyes in the mirror were cold, still, but there was something else behind them, and she suppressed a shiver as he tightened and adjusted the knot, his fingers resting against her neck with a possessiveness that caused her to grow momentarily dizzy. Then he released her, pushing her away. "Off you go," he said.

"Sark," she began, a little more breathlessly than she would have liked. 

"Go, _Ms. Bristow_ ", he said, a sneer in the words as he looked down at his watch. "You don't want to be late."

 

An impossibly thick tension had coated the entire restaurant that night. To make matters worse, as Sydney entered the dining room, she saw Sark talking to a very familiar person seated at a table. Her father. 

Jack Bristow had been somewhat of an enigma in Sydney's life, he'd never really been around while she was growing up and so consequently they'd had a strained relationship, only seeing each other every few years, often when he'd turn up out of the blue. Much like tonight. 

He didn't seem happy, Sydney noticed, but then again he rarely did, her father was the very definition of stoic. Jack finished talking to Sark, who walked away, and then he caught sight of her. 

"Sydney," he said, in his approximation of a pleasant greeting. 

"Dad," she whispered, walking over to him. "What are you doing here?"

He blinked at her. "Can't a father visit his daughter at work?" he asked. 

"I...why?" She asked lamely.

"It's been what, three years or so? I spoke to Arvin Sloane and he told me that you were working here now." Jack looked around and then gave a nod of approval. "Not a bad place at all. How is Michael Vaughn treating you?"

Sydney hated this about her father, how connected he was to everything in her life without actually even being present in it. It was partly because he and Arvin Sloane had once been good friends that she'd gotten the job at SD6 in the first place, and it rankled her that the two were talking behind her back about her, that Arvin was apparently keeping tabs on her and knew where she worked now. 

"Vaughn's fine," Sydney said tightly. "Hmm," Jack hummed thoughtfully. "I see that Julian Sark is working here as well, that's...interesting."

So now her father apparently knew Sark as well? What the hell was going on? "Why is that interesting?" she snapped, and then before he could answer, she rushed on, "You know what, I don't care. Look, Dad, I have no idea what you're really doing here, but I've got to get back to work. We'll talk later, ok?" She hurried off without even waiting for a response.

"Syd, hey!" called a cheerful voice. Sydney halted and turned to see the smiling face of her friend Will Tippen. Normally, she would be happy to see him, but _normally_ he would have called ahead of time to let her know he was coming, unless... Oh, crap. 

"Will," she ventured, giving him a cautious smile, "are you...here on business?"

Will was a food critic for a very popular LA magazine. His opinions held a good deal of weight. And he never held back, even when friends of his were involved. Normally, Sydney admired this about him, but just...not tonight. She wanted to be at the top of her game when The Agency was being reviewed, and there were simply too many annoying things going on.

"My lips are sealed," he said, winking at her. "Just pretend I'm not here."

She wanted to groan in aggravation. Giving Will what she hoped was a grin and not a grimace, she was then thankfully distracted by the hostess seating a two top in her section. Sydney immediately shifted gears, locking up her frustration and putting on a new face. A few big smiles and fake laughs later and she had an appetizer order and a request for, naturally, a bottle of wine. 

Sydney was determined to avoid Sark, and besides, he was busy: she could see him engaged with a table in another section. She could handle this herself. Once she'd ascertained what the table was looking for, she hurried downstairs and retrieved a selection that she felt would go well. She set glasses on the table and, cloth draped over her arm, she presented the wine and described it with perfect finesse. 

Feeling happy for probably the first time that evening, she set to opening it, something she'd done about a thousand times before. As she did this, her spine tingled with the sense of a familiar set of eyes on her, and sure enough, Sark had moved away from the other table and was now watching her, that icy, empty expression on his face. She wasn't sure if it made him look younger or older, but it made him look dangerous, and this sent her blood racing so fast that she felt disoriented. With this distraction, she pulled the cork from the bottle too quickly and it made a loud popping sound. 

Sydney wanted to scream. It was a newbie mistake. The cork was always supposed to be removed slowly, and shouldn't ever pop like that because, for chemical reasons that she had never exactly understood, it altered the taste of the wine. Her table didn't seem to really notice or care, though, and Sydney breathed an internal sigh of relief. This relief lasted for all of five seconds, until Sark was beside her, taking the bottle from her hands. 

"I'm so sorry," he said to the table in a drippingly apologetic tone. "I'll bring you another bottle right away. I'm afraid this wine won't be worth your money any longer. You see," he explained to them, "when the cork is pulled too quickly, it spoils the taste. It won't be nearly as good as you expected. As the old saying goes, haste makes waste." Sark brushed against her as he spoke, and Sydney's face flamed. "Too much excitement wrapped up into the motion, a moment of thoughtlessness or perhaps greed, and then something that could have been so incredible is destroyed, grows bitter. It's not worth it," he said again. He smiled at the customers. "I'll return in a moment." 

Sydney remained standing there, trembling with rage and humiliation and some other emotion that she couldn't name. She felt her persona slipping, her real self bleeding out between the cracks and she used all of her strength to smile so hard that her face ached. The couple at the table were looking at her sympathetically, and she hated them for it. She shrugged. 

"Oh well, I tried," she said with a little laugh. "Who knew wine was so complicated? I had no idea." 

The woman smiled a gentle smile. "You did great, hon," she said encouragingly. "And I'm sure it would have been fine, we're not fussy."

"Yeah, that guy sure takes wine seriously, doesn't he?" chimed in her companion, and Sydney gave a little laugh that sounding grating to her own ears. 

"It's...his job," she mumbled lamely. "I'll be back in a moment with your appetizers." She practically bolted back to the kitchen, feeling like she might throw up or throw a punch.

 

The rest of the night passed in a numb blur, and at the earliest possible moment, Sydney ducked out, stealthily avoiding her father, Will, and of course, Sark. But Sark apparently refused to be avoided, catching her just as she was collecting her things from her locker. 

"Leaving so soon?" The words had a much different tone now than that first night. 

Sydney's eyes narrowed, and the numbness dissipated, the maelstrom of emotion returning with a vengeance. "You didn't have to do that, you know," she snapped at him. "You were a real ass. It was unprofessional."

The brat merely scoffed at this, which further raised her ire. But then a small voice in the back of her brain reminded Sydney that she wasn't _entirely_ blameless. Her voice was softer when she spoke next. "Look, ok, I'm sorry about the other night. I...I was confused."

Sark raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? You seemed perfectly coherent to me. Coherent enough to tell me to shut up."

Heat spread across her neck and face at the memory. "I know...but I got caught in the moment..."

"Yes, I recall that particular _moment_ very well," he said, moving close to her, so close that she was pressed up against the lockers. Sydney's heart slammed against her ribs and a heat began to simmer low inside of her. 

"I know that you enjoyed it," he continued, bringing his face closer to hers. "I could _taste_ it. But you don't like feeling too much, do you?" He searched her face with lust-darkened eyes, and she wanted to look away.

"That's why you are so very good at playing a role. Keeps everything safe." He reached up and gripped her chin with his hand, holding her still so that she couldn't avoid him. And, Sydney realized, she didn't want to. The same fear that had gripped her before swarmed up again and she knew he was correct. 

He kissed her, a mercurial kiss that went from soft and deep to rough and bruising, and god help her, she loved it just as much as she had the first time, if not more. Her body hummed with arousal, damp heat pulsing between her legs; she remembered the way he had touched her and the heat increased. 

Sark released her from his grip and pulled away, too soon, and she stood there, flushed and panting. Without another word, he turned and walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

Sydney had put the invitation to Sloane’s party aside and not really thought about it. Eventually it was buried under a stack of People magazines and credit card bills. Her mind felt off-balance lately, like she was standing on the edge of something, and so things went easily forgotten in this confusion. One Tuesday morning, she awoke with a start after a very peculiar dream: she was standing on a ledge outside the window of a very tall building. She was trying to escape from something or someone. The only way out was down. What seemed like hundreds of feet below, there was a swimming pool. As her heart crashed furiously in her chest and terror and adrenaline swept through her blood, Sydney dove off the edge, plummeting through the air, down, down, towards the glowing blue water. She woke up gasping before the impact. 

Work was beginning to annoy her, moreso than ever before. She felt…disenchanted, like she was spinning her wheels and getting nowhere. Ironically, the one thing she actually looked forward to now was her interaction with Sark. Oh, he was maddening, and Sydney wasn’t certain whether she wanted to punch him or kiss him half of the time—but whatever the exact nature of their chemistry, at least it was invigorating. Flirtations, innuendos, a touch when nobody was looking, a moment of searing eye contact that sent heat shooting like daggers through her blood. 

Unbeknowst to Sydney, this particular Tuesday was when everything would begin to change. She really should have expected it. There was a strange aura to the day, so odd-feeling that she even checked the calendar to see if there was a full moon. There wasn’t. Before she left for her shift at the restaurant, Sydney was briefly overcome by a wave of anxiety that crashed out of nowhere. Then the shaking started. 

It wasn’t a very powerful earthquake at all, more of a large tremor, enough to annoy but not cause any significant damage. She stood in the kitchen doorway until it passed. Thankfully nothing was broken in her apartment, but a few books had fallen from the shelf. Going over to pick them up, Sydney noticed that one of them was _The Decameron_. Frowning, she noticed that a piece of old parchment had slipped out from where it was tucked between the pages. Having never really opened the book, she hadn’t noticed its presence. It looked rather fragile. Gingerly, she unfolded it. Her blood ran icy and weird pins and needles raced up and down her arms. It was a picture, an incredibly old drawing, and yet it was a near-perfect rendering of _her_ face, along with some archaic writing. _What the hell? Was this Sloane’s idea of a joke_?

A quick glance at the clock showed that she was already five minutes late. ''Shit!'' she exclaimed. Sydney refolded the drawing and slipped it back between the pages of the book, which she tucked into her purse before hurrying out the door.

 

X

 

3 bottles of wine were broken, she learned, though they were not expensive. Also a bottle of Stoli vodka had been shattered but that was fine, because apparently nobody cared about Stoli. This was all learned quickly after Sydney arrived at The Agency. There wasn’t anyone around to mind that she was tardy, except for Sark, who was looking down at the mess of broken bottles and puddles of red and clear all blurring together on the floor with an expression of disdain on his face. Disdain was yet another emotion that made him look both older and younger at the same time. 

''Hey,'' she announced her presence somewhat breathlessly after having run most of the way.

''Sydney,'' Sark said, sweeping her up and down with his eyes. ''Alright?''

''Yeah, was just about to leave when it happened.''

''Any damage to your things?''

Syd shook her head. ''No, not really.'' She glanced down at the floor. ''Well, shit,'' she muttered.

Sark rolled his eyes dismissively. ''Just 3 bottles of Cabernet, and not good ones. Floor is the best place for them, really.''

Now it was Sydney’s turn to roll her eyes at his snobbery. _Brat_. She peered at the broken bottles. ''We lost a vodka too, looks like.''

He made a sneering face. ''It was Stoli,'' he said pointedly. ''Nobody cares about Stoli.''

Sydney was about to retort when Michael Vaughn entered the lounge. He wasn’t alone; there was a woman beside him, a coldly pretty blonde who made the hackles rise on the back of Syd’s neck. Vaughn looked tired as he spoke. ''Guys, we’re going to have to close for tonight,'' he announced. ''There’s a few broken pipes that need fixed.'' He shifted on his feet, then said, ''Also, I’d like you to meet someone. This is Lauren Reed. She’s going to be helping out with advertising and coordinating.''

The chilly blonde smiled, and Sydney noticed that she fixed her eyes on Sark with recognition.

''Lauren,'' he acknowledged her with a nod. 

''Julian,'' she answered, and a nasty smirk played at the corners of her mouth. Apparently Sydney wasn’t the only one to notice this, because Vaughn frowned, his brow more knotted and crinkled than usual. Sark just looked faintly amused by the whole exchange. 

''I’m Sydney Bristow,'' Syd offered, breaking the awkward tension.

''Sydney,'' Lauren said in her lilting accent, oozing false politeness. Of _course_ she would have an accent, Sydney grumbled to herself. ''I’ve heard so much about you.''

Sydney gave a tight smile. 

''Well, um,'' Vaughn cleared his throat, ''Lauren and I have a few matters to discuss, so after you clean up, you both can feel free to leave. I already called Dixon and told him not to come in.'' 

As she watched them depart, Vaughn’s hand on the small of Lauren’s back, Sydney’s head felt funny and everything had suddenly narrowed to a kind of tunnel vision. Beside her, Sark chuckled. ''Lauren Reed.'' He shook his head.

''You know her?'' Sydney asked, though she already had the answer.

''I knew her briefly,'' he replied, and the tone of his voice betrayed the exact nature of that knowing. ‘’Poor Vaughn. She’s got sharp teeth. _Two_ sets of them, if you take my meaning.’’

Sydney took the meaning, all right, and it made her strangely sick. She honestly wasn’t sure which upset her more, the thought of the pale blonde sinking her two sets of teeth into Vaughn, or Sark. An uncharacteristic surge of jealousy and anger wove through her and she tried to push it back. ''Well,'' she said, and then dropped to her knees and began furiously gathering the shards of glass from the floor with her bare hands.

''Sydney, why don’t you use a broom for that?'' came Sark’s voice from behind her. She ignored him, continuing to collect the pieces even as hot tears pinched the corners of her eyes. 

''Sydney, come along, stop this nonsense.'' His voice was now far less amused, more stern and insistant. She was annoying him. _Good_. Her vision was blurred, thanks to the damn tears. And the real kicker was, Sydney wasn’t even entirely certain what she was crying about. She brought her hand down against the floor, not able to clearly see a small, sharp shard. She hissed in pain as it imbedded itself in her palm. 

''Sydney, _come!_ '' His voice was as sharp as the glass as he called her like a dog. She whirled around furiously. ''That’s better,'' he said.

Sark leaned down and helped her to her feet, then took her by the shoulder and led her down the stairs to the break room where he retrieved the first aid kit from its place atop a shelf. ''Sit,'' he ordered, and Sydney glowered at him but obeyed, sitting still as he carefully removed the glass and began to clean the bleeding wound with antiseptic. 

''Not deep,'' he announced. He seemed cross with her. ''I don’t understand why you let yourself get so upset over _Michael Vaughn_.'' Sark bit off the name and jabbed a little too hard at the cut on Sydney’s hand, causing her to hiss again. He blinked, seeming to collect himself, and calmly got out a small roll of gauze, eyes softening. ''He’s beneath you.''

''I hate her,'' Sydney decided, startling herself with the ferocity of this admission.

''Who, Lauren?'' he scoffed. ''She isn’t worth your hate. She’ll chew Vaughn up and spit him out and then disappear. And it’ll serve him right.'' Sark finished fastening the bandage around her hand and then impulsively pressed a gentle kiss against the underside of her wrist. Sydney managed a smile that she didn't feel. 

''Sit here for a minute,'' he told her. ''I’ll go and clean up the rest, and then I’m taking you out for a drink.''

 

X

 

Sark took her to a small but incredibly elegant bar on the other side of the city, in a richer neighborhood that she rarely frequented. There they sat at a table that was privately sequestered in an alcove. Surprisingly, he didn’t order wine, rather a very expensive bottle of Scotch and two glasses. 

Sydney took a sip, nearly coughing at the first taste but then relishing the velvety burn against the back of her throat. It was strong stuff. ''Are you trying to get me drunk?'' she joked.

''If I thought it would do any good, I might try,'' he replied with a shrug, ''but we’ve established that it doesn’t.''

She looked down at the table, tracing the patterns in the marble with her eyes.

''Sydney, what’s wrong?'' asked Sark, the inquiry seeming genuine. ''When you came in today you looked…well, _skittish_ , and I don’t think it was from the earthquake. I’ve never known you to be easily rattled. What happened?''

She sighed, took another sip, then reached into her purse and pulled out the book. She removed the odd old parchment with the drawing and handed it to Sark. His expression suddenly went completely blank and unreadable, as if a curtain had been pulled over his face. ''I’ve seen this before,'' he said, tone equally empty. ''It’s a Rambaldi sketch, from one of his notebooks.''

''But it looks just like me,'' Syd protested, leaning closer. ''Why would Sloane give me this? He put it in the book, he obviously wanted me to find it.''

''There is a small resemblance,'' agreed Sark. ''And I’m sure that’s why he wanted you to have it. Perhaps he thought you’d be flattered.''

‘’Creeped out, more like.’’ She tucked the drawing away again and folded her arms.

He studied her for a moment, the blankness slowly dissipating as he began to resemble himself again, coming into focus, all blond and blue, fire and ice, young and old. ''You reserve your emotions for the oddest people and things,'' he noted. ''You get all…jealous and moody about Vaughn, who isn’t worth anyone’s time or energy let alone yours, you worry yourself to pieces about the attentions of a strange and lonely old man…'' Sark seemed to want to say something else. ''You are…open to them. Vulnerable.''

Sydney could hear, could _feel_ the unspoken words: _but you are closed to me, always closed_.

''I’ve just been feeling out of sorts lately,'' she admitted, figuring that she owed him an explanation. ''Not sleeping well. Maybe 'cause Francie’s been away…but she goes on a lot of business trips. The bank sends her all over to deal with their important accounts. Maybe it’s work, I don’t know.'' Sydney stared down at the glass of Scotch on the table, tried to glimpse her reflection in the liquid. ''I just feel like…maybe I feel...stuck. I had this weird nightmare last night where I was trapped out on the ledge of this tall building and there were people after me. I couldn’t escape, so I dove off. Maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something.''

''Perhaps,'' Sark agreed. Then he smiled. ''You know, I had a dream last night about you.''

Sydney snorted and took another sip of her drink. ''Did you now?''

''I did, we were…'' he paused in recollection, ''oh yes, we were in a cave of ice and we were fighting, physically sparring. You were an excellent fighter, by the way, terrific moves, so very natural.'' He poured himself another drink. Sydney couldn’t help but crack a smile. ''Really?''

''Yes, it was quite a turn-on, actually…and then you stabbed me in the leg with an ice pick and I woke up.''

Now she laughed. 

''I’m glad you find my pain amusing,'' he said dryly.

''I think your subconscious is trying to tell _you_ something,'' she chortled. ''Stay away from Sydney Bristow, she’s a cold-ass bitch.'' Syd calmed and tucked her hair behind her ear, then took another drink, feeling suddenly sad.

''Honestly, it was the best dream I’ve had in awhile. Even if you’re stabbing me, shooting at me, or holding a knife to various parts of my body, I’d much rather that than not dream about you.''

''That’s actually kinda sweet,'' she said, then sighed. ''We’re really fucked up, aren’t we?''

''We’re alright, Sydney,'' Sark said. Maybe it was the way he said it, or the look in his eyes, but she believed him.

''You know,'' he picked up the bottle and poured himself a few more fingers of Scotch, ''I was actually invited to a party tomorrow at Arvin Sloane’s.''

''Me too!'' Sydney exclaimed. ''I thought it was weird. I mean, who has a party on a Wednesday night?''

''Rich eccentrics with nothing better to do,'' answered Sark. ''Why don’t we go? Take the night off, see what old Arvin’s been up to. It should be good people-watching, if nothing else.''

It might have been the Scotch, or the earthquake, or the sudden appearance of Lauren Reed, but Sydney found herself, unbelievably, agreeing. ''Yeah, you know what, ok. Let’s do it.'' She raised her glass with her bandaged hand. ''Cheers.''

''To new adventures,'' he said.

''New adventures,'' she repeated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. And plot. And more smut. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

Normally, Sydney would have felt bad about calling off work, but she didn’t. Wednesday nights were slow at The Agency anyhow. The trouble was that now she had to decide what to wear to this party. Also, she was wondering about her sanity after agreeing to go. She told herself that she was going to view it as an investigation of sorts, pretending that she was undercover to gain information about the mysterious drawing that Sloane had given her. Naturally, an undercover mission required a really great look. After deliberating between two outfits, one red and one black, she made her selection, applied her makeup and then got dressed and took a taxi to Sloane’s. At least the black dress was getting some use, finally. Sydney didn't often have an occasion to wear it, and because she was dressing up, she also wore the garter belt and stockings that she had purchased on a whim while going out with Danny, and a pair of black stiletto heels. 

Arvin Sloane's house was utterly enormous, and that night it was overflowing with a sea of wealthy and well-attired people and servers in black tie walking around with glasses of champagne. She took one, feeling rather awkward among all the other guests, like she should be the one walking around with the tray. Emily, Arvin’s wife, came over and greeted her warmly, and Sydney was genuinely glad to see the woman again; Emily was such a sweet lady, mothering. Perhaps, Syd mused, that was why she liked her so much, because her own mother had died when she was very young.

After Emily moved on to greet other guests, Sydney wandered away from the crowd, looking at various replicas of statues that were scattered all around the house. Near the end of a hallway, one caught her eye. Sydney walked over and then paused in front of the large reproduction of Bernini’s ''Ecstasy of Saint Theresa.''

Feeling a hand come to rest on her waist, she quickly turned to see Sark standing there, a smile on his crooked lips.

''There you are,'' he said. He looked at the statue, then back at Sydney. ''Having a religious experience?''

She glanced back at the rapturous expression on the saint's face. ''Not like she is.''

Sark laughed. ''I mean, it’s a weird choice for a hallway,'' Sydney added.

''It’s a nun having an orgasm, what’s not to like?'' he said, grinning impishly. He took her by the arm. ''Now, the merging of the sacred and the profane is a subject that has fascinated artists for centuries, and apparently it has captured Sloane’s imagination as well. This is by no means the most provocative piece that he owns.'' To prove his point, Sark led her into a small sitting room off to one side of the hall. There, on one of the walls hung a very strange picture, an old Japanese woodcut print featuring what appeared to be a woman receiving oral sex from some sort of squidlike creature. Both titillated and horrified, Sydney moved closer. ‘’What the hell…’’

Sark stood right behind her, she could feel the heat of his body pressing against hers. ''Tako to ama, or ‘The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife,’ by Hokusai,'' he said.

''And I thought I had weird dreams,'' she breathed.

''Loneliness does strange things to the mind.''

''I guess so,'' replied Sydney, feeling weirdly hot. Against her will, she remembered kissing Sark that time in her apartment, the way he’d touched her…. This was a dangerous line of thinking, and she tried to chalk it up to the picture and the statue, to the moon and the tides, earthquakes, the whole of the natural world conspiring to throw her off-balance. She turned around, an arm outstretched, uncertain as if she wanted to pull him closer or push him away. Taking a small step back, seeming interested by something, Sark reached out and rested a hand on her arm. Applying light pressure, he tried to push down, to make her arm drop. It did not, rather stayed reaching towards him. Sydney didn’t even think about it until he smiled. She blinked. ''Are you using Applied Kinesiology on me?'' she demanded.

He shrugged. ''Just testing a hypothesis.''

''That’s a load of New Age crap, you know.'' She tried to make her voice sound more certain than she felt. As if to prove a point, he lightly touched her arm again and it lowered reflexively to her side. ''Hmmm,'' he murmured.

''Means nothing,'' she sniffed.

''You want me and you know it,'' he said. 

''I know that you are a pain in my ass,'' Sydney shot back, but she could feel a smile behind her mouth and a flush creeping over her skin. Sark put a hand on her thigh, then slowly, very _slowly_ , sank to his knees, trailing his fingers down her leg as he went. Syd blinked in alarm, even as a burst of heat shuddered through her. ''W-what are you doing?''

In wordless reply, he inched up her skirt and she was thankful that she’d worn the garter belt. ''The door is unlocked,'' she protested weakly as he moved closer, then she gasped as she felt his hot mouth through the silk of her underwear. ‘ _Bad idea, bad idea_ ,’ chanted her brain. God, what if someone came in? Some random guest, Emily, or god-forbid, Sloane. 

''Bad idea, Sark— _oh_ ,'' Sydney was cut off as she felt him slide the fabric to the side and then, ''oh, _fuck_ ,'' she whispered, falling back to brace herself against the wall, trying not to slide to the floor as he began to do terrible, wonderful things to her with his tongue.

It had been a _very_ long time. And he was _very_ good. He knew exactly how much pressure to use, exactly where to flick or stroke. She bit down on her lip, then took a sip of champagne to keep from crying out, her other hand fisting in his hair. Then Sydney was overcome by a burst of delicious heat as she came quick and hard. In her defense, it _had_ been a long time. 

She was shaking a little; she held the champagne flute against her forehead to cool herself. ''Oh, god,'' she whispered. 

''Call me Julian,'' the Brat said with a smirk, getting to his feet. 

''Where…where do you get off?'' she demanded. A quick glance down at the sizeable erection in his pants alerted Sydney to her poor choice of words. 

''Here, I was hoping,'' he quipped with a shrug, glancing around. A semi-hysterical giggle bubbled its way out of her throat, and truth be told she was about two seconds from falling onto her knees and making him _beg_ when the sound of footsteps outside the door made both of them freeze. The knob turned and Sydney quickly adjusted her skirt then spun around, placing herself in front of Sark. 

''Ah,'' said Sloane, smiling like an eel. _God, his face sickened her_. ''There you both are. Julian, if you wouldn’t mind, could I speak to you in my office for a moment?'' 

''Certainly,'' Sark replied calmly, the picture of cool poise. ''I’ll be there in just a moment.'' 

Sloane nodded and disappeared. 

''I really hate him,'' Sark whispered to Sydney. ''And I don’t hate many people, generally, but if I had a weapon right now….'' 

''I’ll loan you my ice pick later,'' she joked. He kissed the back of her neck, raking her skin with his teeth until she shivered. ''You and I are not finished,'' he promised. 

X 

Sydney downed another glass of champagne as she nervously wandered around. Still faintly turned on, the post-orgasm buzz mixing with the alcohol, each step she took reminded her just how _good_ that had been. If he was that talented with just his fingers and his mouth, what would fucking him be like? _Wrong line of thought_ , she realized as she felt a new flood of wetness between her legs. 

''Sydney,'' came Sloane’s voice, startling her out of her reverie. She turned with disappointment, wondering where Sark was. ''Come into my office,'' he said, motioning for her to follow him. 

''Alright,'' she agreed wearily, though he was the last person she wanted to be talking to. Still, now her libido was sufficiently dampened, which was a good thing. If she had encountered Sark again she might have wound up dragging him into the nearest empty room and screwing his brains out, which would not have been a smart move. 

Once they were in Sloane’s large office, he motioned for her to take a seat. He remained standing, smiling down at her in what she supposed he thought was a friendly manner. ''Sydney, I’ve been wondering how you are.'' 

She forced a smile. ''Fine, thanks.'' 

''It was regrettable, what happened with SD6,'' Arvin went on. ''I hope that within a year, we may be able to reopen.'' 

''That…would be great,'' she said, words full of false cheer. 

''I know that you’ve been working for Vaughn at The Agency. So has Julian.'' Sloane shook his head. ''I must say, as a friend, I feel that you could do better, both of you.'' He wandered over to the un-lit fireplace and examined a small vase atop the mantle as he spoke. ''I’ve asked Mr. Sark to go on a personal errand for me. I want him to go to Europe, to attempt to locate certain…items of value that I have a vested interest in.'' 

Before she could stop herself, Sydney blurted, ''The Rambaldi Apocalypse wines!'' 

A delighted smile slithered across Arvin’s face. ''Ah, so Julian must have told you. It’s interesting. I’ve known him for many years… such a closed-off young man. He doesn’t make friends easily, nor does he hold many people in high esteem. Except for you, apparently.'' 

Wondering where this was going, Sydney frowned and waited for him to continue. ''Mr. Sark has agreed to the assignment on one condition: that you accompany him.'' 

''Me?'' she asked in disbelief. ''He wants me to go to Europe to help him look for wine. For you.'' Sydney tried to wrap her mind around this. 

Arvin set down the vase and moved closer to her, his expression nauseatingly earnest. ''I don’t expect you to understand my fascination with Milo Rambaldi, I know you never have, and that’s fine. But please humor me. I’ve always known that you were intelligent beyond your years, and apparently Julian thinks so, too. I trust the both of you, and I know that you will be successful.'' 

''But what if we aren’t?'' she wondered. ''What if these wines don’t even exist anymore?'' 

He waved a hand dismissively. ''We’ll cross that bridge if in fact we arrive in front of it. You will be financially compensated either way, don’t worry.'' 

''I…Mr. Sloane, this is a lot to take in right now. Can I think it over and let you know in a few days?'' 

He nodded. ''Of course. I wouldn’t expect you to decide on the spot, But you’d be doing me a personal favor, one that I would be extremely grateful for.'' 

Sydney rose to her feet, nodding, feeling as though she were having an out-of-body experience. Then she quickly and awkwardly exited the office. Sark was still nowhere to be found, so after a few minutes she called a taxi and left. Once she was home, she felt mildly calmer but still no less confused. It had certainly been the most _unusual_ day she’d had in awhile. Taking off her uncomfortable stilletos and hanging up her dress, Syd climbed into the shower to wash off all the makeup and hair spray. Sloane was officially bonkers, she decided. He was going to pay them what was probably a ludicrous amount of money to go on a wild goose chase across Europe. A fools errand, to be sure, but she’d also be a fool to turn it down. God, what was she saying? This was _Sloane_ , a man that she didn’t trust in the least. His Rambaldi obsession had reached dizzying new heights and he was clearly unstable…but….she’d get to travel. She’d get to learn about wine. She’d probably have to learn a lot about stupid Milo Rambaldi too, but every job had its drawbacks. And she’d be away from the restaurant, away from Vaughn and new ice queen Lauren Reed. She’d be with Sark. Sydney wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that last one. 

She towel-dried her hair and then got into a pair of silk pjs. Once in bed she tried to distract herself with some ridiculous movie on the Lifetime Network, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the Brat. Grumbling, Sydney turned off the TV and then wriggled around, trying to ignore the heat that was once again beginning a slow throb between her legs. From the night stand beside her, her cell phone rang. 

''Hello?'' she answered, wondering who would be calling this late. 

''Sydney,'' came that now-familiar accented voice. She ignored the little shiver that went through her. 

''Sark, I don’t remember giving you my number.'' 

''You didn’t. I’m sorry that I didn’t get to see you again before you left. Did Sloane talk to you?'' 

''He did.'' 

''And?'' 

'' _And_ , he’s lost his mind. Why did you agree to go? You said yourself you don’t think the Apocalpyse wines even exist.'' 

''The Horsemen Bottles,'' he corrected. ''And no, I don’t think that they do. But if Sloane is so convinced of their existence that he’s willing to pay me quite a substantial sum of money to traipse round the Continent and look for them, then yes, I’ll bloody well have a look!'' His voice was now slightly raised and Sydney wondered if he’d been drinking. ''I’m not going to be Vaughn’s somm forever,'' Sark went on. ''Pandering to the nightly deluge of pretentious idiots and trophy wives. And I want you to come with me, Sydney. Stop…mooning over Michael sodding Vaughn. See the world.'' 

''Look, I didn’t say _no_ ,'' she told him with a sigh. ''It’s definitely a tempting offer, but it’s also a big decision and I need to think about it.'' 

''Alright. I do understand.'' His voice had become more controlled again. ''You looked beautiful tonight,'' he added after a moment. 

''Thank you.'' 

''Garter belt was a nice surprise.'' 

''Uh, thanks.'' 

''It’s maddening, what you do to me,'' he said, and Sydney’s heart thudded faster, blood immediately careening southwards. Funny choice of word, maddening. She’d often thought the same about him. ''It’s not my fault we were interrupted,'' she replied, then after a moment of deliberation added, ''It’s not my fault that you got so hard while you were going down on me.'' Her filter seemed to be dissolving, and she wondered if this conversation was headed the way she thought it was. 

''Liked that, didn’t you?'' Sark's voice lowered. ''You came so quick…you’re always so eager for me, even when you try to deny it. You’re soaking wet right now, aren’t you?'' 

Yep, it seemed to be headed that way. 

And she was wet, god help her; she slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her pants because _this_ was apparently happening now, and she was going along with it because she desperately needed to get off again, and not having to look him in the eyes made her bolder, made it all a little less real. 

''I am, I’m _soaking_. I know you love the taste of me. You look so pretty on your knees. That’s where I want you.’’ Sydney was clearly now possessed by a horny dominatrix-type, but she didn’t care, she was too far gone. Everyone knows that when you’re far gone enough, you might as well go all the way. Taking a deep breath, she went on, ''I want your mouth on my pussy until I’ve come so many times I can’t see straight.'' 

Sark was breathing rather heavily now, she noticed. ''And then what?'' he asked. 

''You want to touch me, but you can’t. I won’t let you,'' Sydney teased, enjoying herself entirely too much. ''But because you’ve been so good, I’ll suck your cock, but just for a minute. You can’t come until I say.'' 

Sydney heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. ''Are you touching yourself?'' she asked. 

''Yes, _obviously_.'' 

Ignoring the tone, she spoke authoritatively. ''No. You’re not allowed. Not yet. I want you to imagine me, fucking myself with my fingers, wishing it was your cock.'' 

His voice was a low growl when he asked, ''How do you want me to fuck you?'' 

''Rough,'' Sydney answered, realizing that it was the truth, ''I want you to fuck me until I _scream_.'' Her fingers sped up their motions between her legs; with the filthy words and imagery flooding her mind, she was very close. 

'' _Sydney_.'' There was something very dark and dangerous in that one word, the way Sark said her name, and it pushed her right to the brink. She’d riled him up good, and she loved it. 

''You can touch yourself now,'' she said, and the muffled curses along with her name being repeated in her ear sent an orgasm crashing through her. 

Then, then, there was the strange coming-down moment, breath and racing hearts. 

''I’m going to make you pay for that, my dear, I promise you.'' 

Again, she felt a shiver at that dark voice, so cold, so very cold. 

''I can’t wait,'' she said, and hung up. 

X 

Sydney arrived early at work the next day, feeling now just the _slightest_ bit guilty for having called off the night before. As she walked by the bar, she noticed something beneath one of the shelves. Crouching down, she saw that it was another bottle of wine, miraculously unbroken. It must have rolled underneath during the earthquake. There was space to crawl under the bar, she could fit easily below the ledge. Hearing footsteps, she peeked around and saw Sark walking towards where she was hidden. Sydney had a sudden, evil idea. He moved even closer, so that his lower body was positioned perfectly for what she had in mind. She reached up and laid a hand on his thigh. Startled, he looked down. ''Sydney?'' he asked. ''What in hell are you doing down there?'' 

She put a finger to her lips, indicating the need for discretion, then slid her hand higher. She heard Sark draw in a sharp breath as she closed over his already hardening cock. After stroking him lightly through the fabric of his pants, she eagerly worked down the zipper and pulled him out. Damn. 

''Wow,'' she declared appreciatively. 

''Yes, well, that’s how I’m going to fuck you until you scream,'' he said. 

''Hmmm,'' she murmured, then took him in her mouth. 

'' _Fuck_ ,'' hissed Sark. He tried to reach under and grab hold of her hair but she slapped his hand away. He relented and let her work at him. ''You’re in for it, now,'' he told her. ''You have no idea.'' 

She released him for a moment. ''Oh, are you going to punish me?'' she asked coyly. ''Am I gonna get spanked?'' 

''You won’t sit down for a week when I’m done with you,'' he growled. 

In response, Sydney wrapped her lips around him again, allowing him to thrust a little, until she felt his release against the back of her throat. She swallowed reflexively, a thing that she hadn’t actually done before, and found that she didn’t mind it as much as she expected. After waiting a minute while he composed himself and tucked himself back in, she scooted out from under the bar and got to her feet, the bottle of wine in her hand. ''This must have fallen during the earthquake,'' she said, setting it down and giving him a cheeky grin. 

Sark looked…really good, she noticed. His face was attractively flushed, eyes a darker blue, pupils blown wide. 

''Come with me,'' he said suddenly. ''On Sloane’s ridiculous mission.'' He moved, repositioning them so that he was standing behind her, shifting their power-dynamic again. One of his hands rested on her waist, the other brushed her hair aside then rested against her throat with a kind of gentle restraint. He leaned down by her ear, teeth grazing the lobe, his breath hot on her skin. The hand on her throat increased pressure ever so slightly. ''I could give you a more…comprehensive offer, if you like.'' His lips found her neck, pressing a kiss there. 

''Yes,'' she said. 

''Yes….?'' 

"Yes, I'll go with you."

''Good girl,'' he whispered. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Here is another chapter for you, sorry I have been lagging in updates recently, real life is a bear! I hate adulting! But I've already written the next chap and I just need to edit it, so it should hopefully be up tomorrow! *fingers crossed* I'm really excited about this next half of the story, I love writing travel and adventure. Stay tuned and please let me know what you think!

If there was any doubt in Sydney’s mind that she was making the right decision by agreeing to go with Sark, it vanished later that night when she passed by Vaughn’s office on her way to grab some clean table linens. The door was slightly ajar, and the angle gave her a near-perfect view of a disturbing scene: Lauren Reed with her lips on Michael’s, his hands in her hair. Oddly, upon witnessing this, Sydney felt none of the rage that she’d experienced before, only a kind of emptiness that echoed up and down her chest like a well. And then it passed and she found that she simply no longer cared.

Time seemed to have accelerated, as it often did since Sark had come into her life, it seemed, and the night sped by like neon signs past a car window: a blur of color and movement. Things were rapidly changing in her life, Sydney realized, and a kind of exhilarating organized chaos had replaced the comfortable mundaity that had once permeated it. Proving her worth to Vaughn, something once so important, now did not matter at all. Why had she been so obsessed with what he thought of her? He’d never shown any passion for her. Certainly not the way Sark did. As Sydney approached a new table, she tried to hide the blush on her cheeks and the not-so-chaste smile that threatened to creep across her lips at the memory of what they had done earlier that evening. A few times during the night she had caught Sark’s eye and it seemed that he was thinking about the same thing, and that he was _intensely_ pleased that she had accepted his offer. Sydney honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt quite so brazen--and _alive_.

 

X

 

A few hours later, at the end of her shift, Syd pulled Vaughn aside and told him that she was putting in her notice, that she’d be taking an indefinite leave of absence. 

Upon hearing this, Vaughn looked stricken. “Syndey, _why_?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’ve received another offer and I need to take it.”

“Where?” he demanded. 

Her temper lashed. “None of your business,” Sydney answered with some sharpness to the words.

“Look, Syd,” Vaughn tried again, “does…is this because of Lauren?”

“I don’t care about Lauren,” she replied with a dismissive shake of her head. “I’m doing this for me.”

Not convinced in the least, he pressed, “And would this new offer have anything to do with Julian Sark? Because it’s curious, he came to me earlier today, and it just so happened that he was putting in notice as well. Are you two…involved?” Vaughn swallowed uncomfortably around the word.

She regarded him with narrow eyes, and her words held an icy bite as she said, “Again, that’s none of your business.”

He bristled. “I’m sorry, but I do care about you and…”

“It doesn’t matter, Michael. Now, I’m putting in my notice. Are you going to accept it or not?”

Vaughn slumped in defeat. It seemed he’d aged suddenly; new wrinkles were criss-crossing his brow. “All right. I accept it. I don’t have to like it.”

Sydney nodded. That was enough for her. As she went to leave, he added, “Just promise that you’ll be careful around Sark, ok?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl, Vaughn, I can handle myself.”

 

X

 

The next two weeks went by with equal swiftness. Dixon and Marshall were quite unhappy to hear that Sydney was leaving, but Francie, finally reachable by phone, was supportive, as only a best friend can be: “Hey girl, I always thought that you could do better than waiting tables.”

A few days before leaving, Syd and Sark hammered out some of the details for their journey over a bottle of Merlot at her apartment. “So, where exactly are we going?” Sydney asked, settling herself into the large comfy chair, feeling that it was perhaps…safer not to sit directly beside him on the sofa, as it might lead to certain things that she wasn’t entirely ready for, and yet was craving. She kept telling herself that the funny, fluttery feeling in her lower belly was excitement about the impending trip, and her newly-discovered sense of impulsivity. 

“France first,” he said, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Sloane has all these archaic records that apparently suggest that at least one of the Bottles was kept at Mont St. Michel and was possibly then moved to Rennes-le-Chateau.”

Sydney raised her eyebrows, recognizing at least one of those locations from _The Da Vinci Code_. “Conspiracy nut, much? Should we be looking for the Holy Grail while we’re at it?”

He smiled at her. “I know it seems ridiculous, believe me, but there’s no hard evidence with any of this, it’s all stories and vague clues. Myth, really. I wouldn’t think too hard about it. Mont St. Michel is a fascinating place, lots of history there.”

“Ok, so France, huh? That’s pretty cool.” She tapped her fingers against her wine glass. “Where next?” 

“Spain, Medina specifically, and then Italy, to a small town called Assisi, on the slopes of Mount Subasio.”

“Assisi, as in, St. Francis of? The guy who talked to animals or whatever?”

Sark nodded, with a vague hint of amusement in his eyes. “Yes, that one. His family home was there.”

“Hmm…” Sydney took a thoughtful sip of wine, imagining herself in Italy, a place that she’d always longed to see. 

“And then we go all the way south to Calabria,” he continued. “I’ve been there before, you’ll love it. Bergamot oil, porcini mushrooms, wine. Beautiful country.”

“I can’t speak Italian,” Sydney admitted, biting her lower lip. “I took French in high school but I’m not very good.”

“I can speak both quite well. I’m sure you’ll be fine, most of the people we’ll be dealing with speak English anyhow,” Sark assured her.

“How do you know all these people?” she wondered. 

“I told you, I have very good connections. If you spend enough time in the business of rare and expensive wines, you make them. You meet a lot of personalities, some less savory than others, but that’s to be expected, and a connection is a connection.”

Something dawned on her, and Sydney wondered why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. “Sark, you don’t, um, deal in the black market, do you?”

He grinned, and the look, while charming, was not exactly reassuring. “You are _so_ keen to think the worst of me. No, I have not personally been involved in any such dealings, however, I know that they exist, and I’m aware of people who are. In an endeavor like this, it’s almost necessary to know such types. In the interest of full disclosure, I did reach out to a few of them, just for any and all possible information. You see, if the Bottles existed, they would almost certainly be moved through such channels. If there were even a whisper of their whereabouts, my connections would know.

“And?” she asked. 

He shook his head. “Nothing, Sydney. Just dead ends and old legends.”

“So, we’re…”

“We’re chasing ghosts, my dear.”

Something else occurred to Sydney. “Which bottle are supposed to be where?” she wondered. “Like, according to legend or whatever, is the plague wine supposed to be in France, and famine in Italy?”

Sark shrugged in reply as he topped off his glass. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I wouldn’t think too hard about it.”

“Well, do we even know the years?” asked Sydney, clearly ignoring that last statement. “You said they were from years of war and plague and all…and death was one of the horsemen, wasn’t he? I mean, what’s a year of death?”

Sark groaned and leaned back against the couch, seeming mildly exasperated. “Every year is a bloody year of death, and you are most certainly putting too much thought into this. No, there are, _conveniently_ , no specific years listed. Just random clues left behind by Rimbaldi in his notebooks. It’s drivel, could mean anything really.”

“Can I see them?”

“See what?” he asked, being deliberately obtuse.

“The clues, dummy!”

“Of course, but not tonight. You can look at them on the plane. I just want to relax right now.” Sark tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. He looked delicate like that, very touchable, and after a brief deliberation Sydney got up from the chair and repositioned herself beside him on the couch. A hint of a smile crossed his lips, but he didn’t open his eyes. Feeling strangely affectionate, she brought up her hand and stroked her fingers through his hair. 

And, for his part, Sark sat still and let her pet him, not wanting to open his eyes for fear that he’d scare her away; she was so mercurial like that with him, at times so heated and others shy and closed. So he decided to enjoy the feeling of her fingers, the scent of her body, a soft heat close to him. He kept himself restrained, even when all he could think about was grabbing her and pinning her to the couch, finally drowning in her, long limbs and full lips and fire. 

 

X

 

It was the day before the start of their trip, the next morning they would fly to France. It was a beautiful day, hot and sunny with a bright blue sky. Sydney was almost completely packed, after finally narrowing her clothing choices down to a single suitcase. Neither she nor Sark knew exactly how long they’d be gone. In Sydney’s mind, this leant even more excitement and mystery to the journey. Syd felt like a character in one of the novels she liked to read. She didn’t care about Sark’s dismissiveness, she was intrigued by the Horsemen Bottles now, and was damn well going to try and solve this puzzle, it was what she was being paid for, after all. 

She also allowed herself to wonder about her relationship with the Brat, where it was headed. She shook _that_ thought out of her mind in favor of deliberating over what reading material to bring along. As she was perusing her bookshelf, there came a knock at the front door. She opened it to reveal Jack Bristow standing there in a suit, as he perpetually was, even though it was sweltering outside. 

“Dad,” she greeted him blandly.

“Syndey,” he nodded. “May I come in?”

With a shrug, she moved out of the way and let him step inside. 

“How did you know where I live?” she asked. Jack didn’t answer, and she didn’t push it. Her father had a disturbing tendency to just _know_ things and Sydney had long ago decdied that she’d rather not know exactly how he came by the information. 

“I hear you’re going to Europe with Julian Sark. On an errand for Sloane.”

Of course, he’d heard. Naturally.

“That’s right,” Sydney responded in a tight voice, busying herself with absently tidying the living room, avoiding looking directly at him. She was sure that he was there to tell her to be careful, or that she was making a mistake, ask her how well she really knew Sark, so she glanced up in surprise when Jack said, “I’m happy for you. Perhaps your talents can be put to better use.”

“Thanks,” she managed, feeling a warm rush of unexpected gratitude. The feeling came along with a small clang of alarm: it would do no good to start feeling warmly towards her father, he had let her down so many times throughout her life that she was always cautious to never get attached when he would show up only to disappear again. Sydney had learned to become guarded around him, and to quickly cast off any traitorous feelings of affection.

Jack nodded and then reached into his pocket. He retrieved a small, ornate box and then handed it to her. Sydney accepted it with curiosity, and opened the lid. Inside was what she thought at first was a necklace, but then was revealed to be an incredibly old key on a chain. 

“What is this?” she asked.

“That belonged to your mother. It was given to her by a woman in Italy, when she was around your age. She never said exactly why, or what it was supposed to mean, but I know she held it very dear. She would have wanted you to have it, especially now. Your mother…had an adventurous spirit. As do you.”

His voice had softened so that she scarcely recognized it. Feeling deeply touched, for a weak moment Sydney debated giving her father a hug but then thought better of it and closed herself off again. Jack Bristow was not a hugger, anyway. Instead, she said, “I really appreciate this.”

He smiled faintly and then moved to the door and opened it. “Take care, Sydney. And look after Sark.”

“I will Dad, thanks.”

Then he departed, leaving Syd staring at down at the key. Huh. She ran her fingers over it, it was heavy, probably made of brass. It was simple, but there was an interesting design inlaid. All in all, it was a very pretty object. She closed the lid and tucked it carefully away in her suitcase. Then, after a moment of deliberation, she also added _The Decameron_ , the strange drawing still tucked between its pages. 

Satisfied, Sydney checked the time; she needed to stop by The Agency and collect her final paycheck and clean out her staff locker. As she walked the familiar blocks to the restaurant, she savored the feel of the day, the sun on her skin, the scent of nearby flowers, and her spirit grew lighter than it had been in a long time. She was no longer just merely _existing_. 

She pulled open the front door of the building, rather than using the rear staff entrance, and walked inside for possibly the last time. The future was an open span, it made her feel giddy. She spotted Sark by the bar; she knew he’d be here, he needed to do a final inventory. Poor Vaughn, he was losing his lead server and his somm in one fell swoop. _Oh well_ , she thought, rather meanly, _he’s got Lauren Reed now_.

Sark grinned at her, then his eyes drifted lower, fixing on her chest. Looking down, Syd realized that the sudden chill of air conditioning had made her nipples stand out quite prominently against her halter top. She quickly folded her arms across her chest and he smirked and winked, causing a flush to spread over her face. 

 

It was hard to say goodbye to Dixon and Marshall. Dixon scooped her up in a tight hug and wished her all the best, though he did add, in a whisper, “Don’t know why you have to go with _him_ ,” as he glared slightly in Sark’s direction. 

“He’s alright once you get to know him,” explained Sydney, smiling at her friend, who still looked like he didn’t quite believe her. 

Marshall kept it together pretty well, though she could see that he was blinking back tears. “I’ll be back,” she assured him, even though she wasn't quite sure herself, and he opened his mouth to say something but was promptly distracted by a glance over at the pantry, where his arch-nemesis was apparently once again creating sloppy, radish-less salads. 

Syd decided that this was probably a good time to slip away. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to say a final goodbye to Vaughn. There were still fresh wounds there, and it might be best not to pick at them. Thankfully, the decision had been made for her: Vaughn was away for a meeting with Kendall, the Agency’s owner. 

She slipped around the side of the bar to where Sark was standing. “Ready to go?” he asked, and Sydney caught him casting another glance downward at her still-unruly nipples. Halter tops were a questionable choice at best, she decided, and it was good that she only owned a few. However, she didn’t entirely mind the way that he was looking at her. She had come to understand that she definitely had some sort of effect on him, and it made her feel powerful. And aroused.

Sydney looked around the restaurant one last time, then nodded and said, “I’m ready.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! SO sorry that it took me a million years to update; this past month and a half have been totally insane. Hopefully after this I can have chapters out in a more timely fashion. Anyhow, please enjoy this next installment and let me know what you think!

Sydney’s stomach was full of butterflies as they boarded the plane. Nervously, she hummed a Paul Simon song to herself. _I’m on my way, don’t know where I’m goin, I’m on my way_.

After they had taken off and were safely in the air, Sark just smiled at her and then handed her a folder that he pulled from his carry-on. “Here.”

“What’s this?” she asked, accepting it.

“The information that’s been assembled so far on the Horsemen Bottles. The majority is, in my opinion, nonsense, but Sloane seems to think it’s useful.”

There was a large stack of photocopied documents, ones that looked very old. They were all handwritten: writings, drawings, sets of numbers that resembled coordinates. 

“Much of it is from Rambaldi’s notebooks,” explained Sark. "The rest is from other various sources over the years, treasure hunters and conspiracy theorists.” He paused. “Occult-minded, treasure hunting conspiracy theorists.” A shudder went through him.

Sydney grinned. “The best kind,” she said brightly, thumbing through the folder.

“ _Where the road disappears…_ ” she read aloud from the scrawling print. “ _Towering isle_ …so that’s Mont St. Michel, right?”

Nodding, Sark said, “At low tide it’s accessible by foot. Once, very long ago, it was all dry land.”

“Hmm, yeah, and according to the reading I’ve been doing it was never conquered because it was so well-fortified…hey, maybe the War bottle was or is there.” Sydney tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I mean, let’s face it, that whole area has seen a lot of war over the centuries.”

Sark looked unconvinced. “It’s an odd place for an infamous bottle of wine, considering that little to no wine is actually produced in Normandy. There’s something like one lonely vineyard.”

“Well, maybe famine, then?” she suggested, only half joking. “You know, wine famine?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re reaching,” he said. “Look, we’ll trudge out to the Mont and have a walk around, so we can say we did our job, and then head back to the mainland. There’s a few good hotels and restaurants there, and then in the morning it’s back to Paris and then on to Languedoc and Rennes-le-Chateau. I’m already sick of all the blasted churches and I haven’t even set foot in one yet.”

Sydney whacked him over the head with the folder. “Stop being such a grump. This trip is gonna get old really fast if you don’t. I might wind up ditching you in Paris for some charming chef.”

“You wouldn’t last five minutes with a chef, they’re insufferable.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “And you’re not?”

“I am an acquired taste.” Her face flushed a little at the suggestive look he gave her and she knew he was thinking of their little rendezvous behind the bar. 

“So I’m not particularly delighted about certain aspects of this assignment, aspects that you have to admit _are_ quite ridiculous,’’ admitted Sark. “It doesn’t mean that I’m not excited about the opportunity for you and I to…get to know each other better.”

The flush on Sydney’s skin deepened. “They’ll be plenty of time for that,” she said, looking quickly down at the stack of papers.

He scoffed lightly, then leaned over by her ear, “If you’ve ever been interested in joining the Mile High Club…” 

She hit him with the folder again.

X

They could have flown from Paris to Normandy, but Sark procured a car easily at the airport and he drove. Sydney snuck a look over at him as they sped through the countryside, and it occurred to her that for a man she’d been somewhat intimate with, she knew very little about him. She’d never seen where he lived, she didn’t even know where he was from, and this bothered her far less than she expected it to. It somehow kept things…safe between them. Sydney wondered if this was why she never called Sark by his first name, why she’d never even spoken it. But this was all fine, somehow. It was strangely comfortable. It allowed her to feel attraction to him on a detached, almost clinical level. And she _was_ attracted to him, she knew, as she studied the way his hands held the steering wheel, a look of relaxed concentration on his face as he drove. 

“Do you think Rambaldi ever knew that he’d have this weird cult-like following one day?” she wondered. 

Sark nodded. “Possibly. He seemed rather full of himself. Leaving all these clues and odd prophecies and drawings; you don’t go to such theatrics unless you expect that someone will be paying attention.”

“Prophecies?” Sydney asked, her ears perking up. “What prophecies.”

Ignoring the question, Sark went on, “Now, occasionally, being overly self-assured can work out. For example, when Horace wrote the Odes he claimed ‘ _Exegi momentum aere perennius_.’”

“ _I have made a monument more lasting than bronze_ ,” Sydney said softly.

He grinned, bright-eyed, then said, “Yes, well, case in point. I’m willing to wager that only a handful of people today could tell you anything about Milo Rambaldi, most have never heard of him and yet the few who are aware seen almost obsessively devoted to the man. It’s strange.”

She smiled. “It’s like finding some obscure band playing in a little club and falling in love with the music, feeling like it’s your little secret.”

“I don’t think it’s anything so charming as that. Rambaldi’s fans are more like...disciples. It’s…”

“Creepy,” Sydney supplied.

“Yes, it is.”

They fell quiet for a moment and Sydney thought about obsession as she stared out the half-open window, letting the breeze ruffle her hair. Another question occurred to her. “The people who actually want these bottles, do you think they’re more attracted to the fact that it’s wine, or the fact that Rambaldi is connected to it?”

Sark shrugged. “Possibly both. Rare, hard to find things shrouded in myth have always attracted collectors. Buried treasure, the Holy Grail, the Spear of Destiny…”

“The lost continent of Atlantis,” added Syd.

“Well, it’s hard to collect an entire theoretical continent, but I suppose, yes.”

“You’d think that rich people would have better things to do.”

“One would think.” 

Another spell of silence passed over them, and Sydney let herself drift along with the scenery until she felt a prickling on her neck. She turned and noticed that Sark was now looking over at her, all cerulean-eyed intensity.

“What made you decide to be a server?” he asked.

The question threw Sydney for a moment, it was the sort of personal talk that she had wanted to avoid. And yet somehow she found herself wanting to answer, because nobody else had ever asked her that before. People seemed to assume that the food service industry was not a career that one chose so much as a last resort.

“I just sort of fell into it," she replied honestly. "I guess I liked the sense that I could, to a certain extent, control how much I made based on my performance. It became like a challenge. Or maybe it was a weird kind of social experiment, to see which personality people responded to more. Every night at work, it was like…like putting on a different wig and costume." Smiling, Sydney went on, "It was fun. And then, the more time I spent in food service, the more I learned about food and wine. The wine just fascinated me. That a liquid could inspire such devotion and study. I thought, hey, there must be something here. And so I decided that I’d learn as much about it as I could.” 

She should have asked, _what about you? What made you want to be a somm? How did you start? Who are you?_ But once again, she felt it would be safer if she did not have those answers.

 

X

 

Mont Saint Michel was unlike anything Sydney had ever seen: the pictures certainly did not do it justice. It was larger than she’d imagined: a sprawling, towering isle that jutted against the sky like something out of a fairy tale, laying amid the water. 

“Wow,” she breathed as they walked closer and closer, the low tide creating a path for their feet, like a magical drawbridge being set down. She wanted to stop and snap a picture, but she told herself that there would be time for that later, they had a job to do first. 

After arriving on the island itself, she followed Sark along, both admiring and jealous of the way he moved with such ease, seeming to know exactly where he was going and how to get there, with a cool detachment rather than the gawkiness that Sydney felt as she looked around at everything, the stone pathways and close-together old buildings, the way that everything seemed to lead upwards, as if the whole city was trying to climb to the heavens.

Without looking back, his hand sought hers and helped her along with a steady grip. _Come along, Sydney, come along_ , she imagined him saying in her mind, and she rolled her eyes and smiled at the same time. 

 

Their destination was an ancient monastery that made its home there, cloisters displaced in time. She heard the bells ringing as they were granted access, her footsteps quieting. Sydney made herself as silent as possible as they made their way down a narrow corridor, moving like a shadow beside Sark, who was grave silent, though not really out of any sort of awe or respect; he seemed flat and grim, seemed put-out by the whole thing, as if the place existed solely to waste his time. 

Then he stopped by a large, nondescript door, and rapped on it. After a moment, it was opened by a shorter, middle aged man. His graying hair was on the longer side, pulled back in a ponytail, and he was dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt. He smiled widely upon seeing Sark. 

“Well, hell,” he said cheerfully, “if it isn’t Julian the Apostate. Come on in.” The man waved them into the small study, which was crowded with what must have been hundreds of books, many of them much older volumes in an assortment of languages. “Have a seat,” their host said, gesturing to a small, threadbare sofa while he settled himself behind a tiny, ancient wooden desk.

“Thank you,” Sydney said politely, sinking down. Sark remained standing. The strange man chuckled. “Still have that stick up your ass, I see.” He leaned back and propped his feet up on the desk. “So…” he eyed Sydney with some interest, then his eyes flicked over to Sark again. “Are you going to introduce us, or what?”

“My name is Sydney Bristow,” she said, before Sark could open his mouth. “We’re here on business.”

“Hmm, yes,” the man nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard about it. Arvin Sloane’s throwing his money around trying to find the Horseman Bottles. He’s been at it for years, and each time he fails he only becomes more obsessed.”

“You know Arvin?” asked Sydney.

“I sure as shit do. I used to work with him, years ago, before I went looking for god. Name’s Todd Leach, but here I go by Brother Tobias.”

 

“You’re a monk?” Sydney tried to hide her surprise at this. Todd seemed more like an aging musician than a holy man.

“Technically, no, I haven’t taken any formal vows, but I’ve been living here for many years,” he explained. “It clears my head. Even during tourist season,” he added wryly. “This island is a famous pilgrimage site. I’ve found that everyone who comes here is looking for something. And I have a hunch that you’re looking for those Bottles, am I right?”

After seeing Sark’s nod, Todd grinned and clucked his tongue. “Taking advantage of a rich and desperate man. Smart of you. I wish,” he said, rocking back in his chair, “that I could offer you some riddle, some bit of secret information that I’ve gleaned in some catacomb, but as you must know, there’s nothing. The only connection that Milo Rambaldi has to this island is that, according to legend, he visited here centuries ago. But again, there’s no hard evidence to even prove that.”

“I figured as much,” muttered Sark.

The not-monk smiled. “Naturally. And you’ve always been the thorough type.” He studied Sydney’s face again for a moment, searchingly. “I’m beginning to put some pieces together,” Todd announced, then shook his head. “Poor, obsessed, deluded Sloane.”

Sydney wondered what he meant by that. 

“Was it his idea for you to bring her here?’’ he asked Sark.

Sark shook his head. Understanding dawned on the other man’s face and Syd was growing irritated at being kept out of the loop. 

“Oh, sorry, kiddo, you must be confused,” Todd/Tobias said to her. “Let me explain. There’s this drawing in one of Rambaldi’s notebooks, this woman, and she looks a little like you. To most people, it wouldn’t matter at all, I mean, we all probably look like someone from 400 years ago or whatever, but I’m sure you know that Sloane’s a little…unstable. He might be making connections were there aren’t any. And if you’re a little crazy to begin with, that’s not always a good thing.”

Things began to come into clearer view for Sydney. Her eyes widened. “So _that_ must have been why he gave me that same picture! Inside a book. I didn’t even know it was there until recently. So…”

“So maybe he thinks you’re the reincarnation of this chick who was really important to Rambaldi. Ergo, you also become important to him. And I don’t think your boy here liked the thought of Sloaney getting all obsessive about you.” Todd jabbed his thumb in Sark’s direction.

Sark just seemed uninterested. “Well, thank you for the hospitality, Leach” he said. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Hey, no worries,” Todd grinned good-naturedly. “The praying gets tedious after awhile.”

 

X

 

They left the monastery as silently as they had arrived, though when they were back out on the streets in the sunlight, Sark seemed to thaw a little. If Sydney wasn’t mistaken, he seemed relieved to be away from there. “We have some time,” he told her. “We can look around a bit, if you like.”

She smiled and pulled out her camera. As Sydney snapped some pictures, she fell deeply into thought. Todd’s theory about the drawing did explain some things…and left her with a tremendous feeling of ickiness towards Sloane…and a warm tug of affection towards Sark. Protecting her from Arvin’s misguided obsession…that was rather chivalrous of him.

The camera was getting put to very good use, soon she’d taken dozens of pictures. She couldn’t help it, it was one of the most stunning places she’d ever seen. 

Sark, as usual, seemed unimpressed, and rather eager to leave, but to his credit he indulged her patiently for several hours, following her while she trekked all over the Mont, through its narrow streets, while she framed the ancient buildings and the water and sky. She turned and saw him leaning against an old stone wall, looking out toward the horizon. He wasn’t quite frowning, but the expression on his face suggested that he wasn’t thinking about anything pleasant: it was a solemn and faraway look. Her breath hitched in her throat and the camera clicked. The sun would soon be setting. 

He turned to her. “We should probably be getting back now.”

Sydney couldn’t hide the look of disappointment on her face. “But can’t we stay here tonight?”

Mouth in a line, he raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want to?”

“Yes,” she confirmed with a nod, then added, “please?” with her best pouty face.

“Fine,” he sighed. “But we’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

 

X

 

Sydney took a sip of Cabernet from the glass in front of her and once again found herself simply looking at Sark as they sat across from each other at a table in a small, old restaurant. So far, she was quite impressed with his ability to get around in a foreign land with such ease. Though it was still tourist season, he’d had no trouble suddenly procuring rooms for them at one of the larger hotels on the island. He spoke flawless French and seemed to somehow command respect from everyone that he encountered. 

“So that’s it?’’ she asked him, taking a bite of delicious, buttery bread. “We just talk to one monk and then leave?”

Sark snorted as he poured himself another glass of the wine. “He’s far from a monk, trust me, but he is very knowledgeable, and our only possible source of information here, and he kindly explained that there’s nothing to find. We did our job, as far as Sloane is concerned. You got to take your pictures and you’re going to spend the night here like you wanted. So yes, I’d say we can close the book on Mont Saint Michel for the purposes of this journey.”

“We didn’t look very hard,” Sydney mumbled. 

Sark laughed. “How do you propose we look? Should we comb through every dusty old volume in the monastery library? Tap on old stones and hope that a secret passageway opens? Inspect every statue for possible clues?” He laughed again, and though Sydney didn’t really appreciate the sarcasm, she had to admit that he looked quite attractive at present. He’d had a bit to drink and there was a sheen to his eyes that made them seem a darker blue, and his smile made her stop for a moment and stare. She pretended that she was glaring at him as she topped off her own glass. The wine was heavenly; it was full of notes of dark berry and chocolate and it hit her tongue in all the right places. She was probably going to gain several pounds on this trip if she kept eating and drinking like this. The alcohol was making her warm, so Sydney slipped off her jacket, carefully watching his reaction, which was once again a positive one. 

“You got some sun today,” Sark noted, eyes tracing over her shoulders and down to the exposed skin of her chest where her tank top dipped low. “A little bit,” she agreed. “I don’t mind. It’s nice to be outside. I feel like…maybe I’ve spent too much time stuck in the restaurant, or in my apartment studying. I was just so goal-focused, I think I lost sight of other things.” Syd paused for a moment, looking down at the small scar that still remained on her palm from the broken glass. “So, Julian the Apostate, huh?” she said, raising her eyes to him as she recalled the nickname Todd had used. “Last pagan emperor of Rome.”

A devilish grin skimmed across his crooked lips. "You said my name."

"Uh-uh," Sydney shook her head cheerfully. "Totally different context. I was referring to the historical figure."

"Oh, I see." He was still grinning, but there was a sharp edge to it, like a cracked mirror. "One day, Ms. Bristow, one day..."

She finished her glass of wine in a single sip. Sark stood, then, and held out his hand to her. Her heart sped up as she accepted it. That odd, inexplicable shudder of electricity moved between them, and Sydney followed him out of the restaurant and into the cool night. She could smell the sea, and the island now seemed even more otherworldly. The scent mixed with the cologne and heat from his body and wove a narcotic spell over her. She barely registered the next building that they entered, elegant old stone and wood, scarcely was aware of the hallway or the opening of the door to reveal a beautiful bedroom, with antique furniture and expensive sheets. “One room?” she wondered aloud. Her voice was throatier than she expected it to be. Sark shook his head, then gestured in the direction of another door. “Adjoining rooms.”

“Oh,” said Sydney, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He smirked faintly, finally letting go of her hand, but moving even closer to her.

Sark reached up, hooking a finger around the strap of her white tank top and gently sliding it over to expose the fresh tan lines. “Being outside suits you,” he said. He leaned down and pressed his lips against the revealed skin, then closed a hand over her breast, first over the fabric of her shirt and then sliding beneath it to seek her skin directly. As he rubbed his thumb over her hard nipple it sent a jolt of pleasure between her legs. Sydney was sure he could feel her trembling, feel her heart racing as he wordlessly began removing her clothes. She allowed him to, helping him to unbutton her jean shorts and work them over her hips and down her legs. Soon she was standing in just her flimsy pale blue silk underwear. Sark skimmed a warm hand down her belly and beneath the fabric. She fought a gasp as he began to gently play with her clit, the touch of his fingers teasingly light. Sydney leaned back and closed her eyes while he kept touching her. While Sark's hand worked between her thighs he kissed her neck, the aggressiveness of his mouth a firm contrast as he nipped at her with his teeth, sending shockwaves through her. 

“Go lay down on the bed,” he instructed, breaking away. Head buzzing and skin humming, Sydney obeyed him. Situating herself naked atop the covers she watched his eyes rove over her, lust-darkened to the color of a lake in the evening. Her stomach dipped in a warm shiver as he walked over to her with slow and predatory movements. She bit her lip, aroused to the point of witlessness. Sark cocked his head to the side, stared for another long moment that made her grow wetter. His fingers reached out, then came to rest feather-light on her knee; her body responded with a mind of its own and parted her legs. Stabs of heat dotted her skin, pinpricks of lust and shame. 

He smiled, a small twitch of lips that was difficult to read, not really one thing or the other, and she wanted—desperately wanted—this illusive man.

“Sydney, darling,” he said, low and quiet. Then he abruptly turned and walked away, leaving her there in naked frustration. She heard the door click. Sydney fought the urge to scream, realizing that this was payback for that first time at her apartment. So this was the game they were playing now, huh? He was going to pay dearly for it. Goddamned _Brat_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so initially I had this chapter and the next one together...but my smutty muse got away from me, and so I decided to split them up. So here, have all the porn. But there is actually some pretty important plot hidden in between if you squint. Please let me know your thoughts! :)

Yet another strange dream had Sydney waking in confusion. She’d been in cold water, sinking, being pulled down as she was powerless to stop her descent. Down, down, until she was, curiously, dropping through a ceiling into what seemed like a chamber of some sort. Acid rain was falling from the ceiling. No longer cold, Syd realized that she was wearing haz-mat gear. With horror, she saw that the acid was eating through it, quickly dissolving the material. There was a gun in her hands. She looked upwards, saw a large window. On the other side, looking down at her, was Sark. There was an impossibly cold look on his face—cold and yet something else, almost an excitement or anticipation, like he was waiting to see what she’d do.

With a sigh, Sydney pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed. She wasn’t any sort of dream-interpretation expert, but she figured that it all had something to do with her intense sexual frustration. She was angry at Sark because of the way he’d left her so abruptly the night before, without any sort of real satisfaction. Perhaps, though, it was for the best. Maybe that was what the cold water meant—it was a metaphor, her subconscious telling her to cool off. She wanted this to remain professional—they had a job to do—a job that he didn’t seem to be taking seriously. He was, however, putting a good deal of energy into pushing her buttons.

Sydney went over the same old litany that she'd been repeating in her mind for weeks: it was a bad idea to get involved with Sark any further—they’d already gone a bit too far. And yet, as always, some rebellious part of her craved him. He knew it, he understood the effect that he had on her, and he was using it to his advantage. Well, bad idea or not, her libido was winning out and she was going to have to turn the tables on him a bit, she just needed to figure out how. Her thoughts immediately drifted back to The Agency: hidden beneath the bar, his cock in her mouth, how powerful she’d felt…and that time on the phone… 

Sydney shook her head quickly, going into the bathroom. A cold shower, that was what she needed. She’d heard about the benefits of cold showers on the lymphatic system. After spending a few seconds beneath the frigid spray, she decided that cold showers were definitely overrated, and adjusted it to a more comfortable temperature. Unfortunately, the hot water made her recall her dream again: Sark’s eyes staring down at her, like he had her trapped right where he wanted her. It was a dangerous look, and it was wrong that it left her feeling so aroused. Sydney let her eyes fall closed and her hand slipped down between her legs. Images spilled into her mind, darkly sexual imagery, she and Sark fucking with a sort of violence that she’d never before experienced—and it took her breath away as she frantically circled her clit. Bracing herself against the shower wall, she shoved two fingers inside while she imagined his hand against her throat, his stare icy-hot and blue-eyed as he slammed into her. 

A dizzying orgasm exploded through Sydney until she saw stars in the corners of her eyes. Good gods, what was _wrong_ with her? She needed to calm down. At least now, hopefully, her head would be clearer for awhile. Discomfort be damned, she turned the water to cold again and quickly washed her hair and scrubbed her body like she was trying to decontaminate herself.

 

 

Sydney was sad to leave the Mont behind, and she quickly snapped a few last pictures as they departed.

“We’re going to…Languedoc, now, is that right?” she asked him as they drove away, after the towering isle had vanished from her view. Sark nodded.

“But that’s in southern France, its all the way on the other side of the country. We’re flying there, right?”

Sark rolled his eyes. “Why must you rush everything? Yes, we’re going to Languedoc, specifically Rennes-le-Chateau, in a few days. Right now, I thought we’d go back to Paris. Nice halfway point, it’ll give us some time to evaluate things, to plan more concretely.”

“Paris?” echoed Sydney.

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she said, “But the notebooks don’t say anything about Paris.”

He smirked at her. “Perhaps he didn’t write everything down. Maybe we need to think outside the box a bit.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Come on, aside from the airport you’ve seen nothing of the city. Give yourself some time to explore. You enjoyed taking all your photographs at the Mont, correct?”

She nodded. 

“Well, think of how many pictures you can take in Paris.”

“That’s true,” Sydney allowed. “But two days, tops, and then we’re back to work.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

 

After checking into a hotel so elegant that Sydney felt out of place in the lobby, they walked around for a bit. Paris was breathtaking. It made her a little giddy, actually. She was finally doing it, she was seeing the world. As she drank it all in, she barely noticed that Sark was looking at his phone quite a bit, that he seemed distracted. Just as she had finished snapping a shot, she felt his hand on her arm. 

“Sydney, love, let’s go sit and have a drink. I know just the place.”

Ignoring the endearment, she followed him a few blocks to a pretty outdoor café. They shared a bottle of Pinot Noir; the heavenly liquid smelled of black cherries and just a hint of lime and oak. It poured smoothly down her throat and lingered on her tongue. Sydney closed her eyes contentedly for a moment, letting the breeze wash over her face, bringing the scents of the city, a thousand different and unique aromas. Opening her eyes, she found Sark staring at her. 

“You’re right,” she admitted. “This was a good idea.”

“Paris is always a good idea,” he quoted Audrey Hepburn, and Sydney giggled. Sark looked away for a moment, staring at the building across the street. It was a nondescript old structure with vines crawling up the sides. Then he looked back at his phone. He stood. 

“I’ll be back in just a moment,” he told her. 

“Um, ok,” Sydney replied, momentarily taken aback by the abruptness. He smiled at her, though, and squeezed her shoulder before he departed. She shrugged and went back to her wine. Reaching into her shoulder satchel, she pulled out the folder with the photocopied translations of Rambaldi’s notebooks, and continued reading where she had left off.

‘ _And so, I went to the place of the heretics, where the glory of Rome had spread, long ago….these mountains protect us, casting their ancient shadows. Here did I long for her, so lonely…I crave her touch, her slim body and wide eyes. To taste her, to pour my elixir into her mouth_.’

Good _grief_. Sydney’s eyes widened. That was a suggestive line if she’d ever heard one. It seemed that Rambaldi was somewhat of a romantic. Interesting. She wondered who the mystery woman had been, why they had been separated. As she was pouring herself another glass of wine, Sark returned. “Hey,” she said.

“Hello,” he answered with a smile, sinking down into his seat, running a hand through his hair. 

“Everything alright?” she wondered. “You were gone awhile.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” he said dismissively, reaching for his own glass. “I just needed to check on something back at the hotel.” He peered over at her, seeing the contents of the folder. “Ah, what’s Rambaldi been up to?”

“Well, apparently he had a girlfriend. Take a look at this.” Sydney pushed the papers across the table and let him read. 

“Hmm…so he did. Very poetic. ‘ _Taste her…pour my elixir into her mouth_ '…”

God, it sounded even more erotic when he was reading it aloud in that accent of his. Sydney crossed her legs, trying to ignore the sudden little burst of heat inside of her. “Maybe he wanted her to taste some of his wine,” Sark offered, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. That look was devilish. 

“I don’t think he was talking about wine,” Sydney mumbled. 

“Perhaps not.” He winked at her as he took a sip from his glass.

She pulled her sweater around her shoulders. The sun was setting and once again it was getting chilly. “Who do you think she was? Does it say anything anywhere about Rambaldi having a girlfriend?”

Something changed in Sark’s expression, growing tight and blank. It reminded her of the way he had looked back in L.A. when she’d showed him the drawing she’d found. But it passed just as quickly as it had then, and he said, “No, I don’t think so. And perhaps he was simply…imagining a woman. He says that he was lonely, perhaps he was staring out at the Pyrenees, wishing that he had someone to share it all with.”

“The Pyrenees?”

“Yes, when he mentions the mountains in this passage he’s obviously describing Rennes-le-Chateau, that’s why we’re going there next. It’s a very ancient place, the Romans had a settlement there. You know,” he continued thoughtfully, “perhaps you’re right. I think that tomorrow we should be on our way.”

Well, that was unexpected, Sydney thought to herself. She’d just started to really enjoy Paris, and was looking forward to having another day there. But still, at least he seemed to be showing an interest. 

“You _are_ intrigued, admit it,” she said. 

“I will admit to no such thing. But I know how much this whole…expedition means to you, so…” Sark shrugged and then turned and motioned for the waiter.

After paying the check, he stood and held out his hand, which she accepted. As they made their way back to the hotel, Sydney couldn’t help but like the way he threaded his fingers through hers, the grip firm and almost…protective? Possessive? Whatever it was, it was...nice. She could hear Sark humming softly beside her, Syd recognized the Josephine Baker song, ‘J’ai Deux Amours.’ She smiled.

“I was expecting Edith Piaf, maybe ‘Non, Je ne regrette rien.’ ”

He laughed. “That’s so cliché. And I have many regrets, actually.”

“I think everyone does. But that was one of the reasons that I decided to come with you. I didn’t want to look back someday and regret that I hadn’t taken a chance.”

“I’m glad,” he said, sounding very sincere. The way he looked at her just then—Sydney’s stomach gave a strange dip and flutter and suddenly she came perilously close to real _feelings_ territory. It was just the city, she told herself. Paris at night had that effect on people. Or so she’d heard.

 

Syd was surprised when they got off the elevator and Sark led her in a direction opposite from the rooms they’d checked into. Seeing her confusion, he explained, “There was an issue with the suite, some leaky pipes or such. They’ve put us in this room; it’s a single, I’m afraid.”

Her stomach did that flippy thing again. “Oh,” she said. He opened the door. “You needn’t worry,” he told her as they walked inside. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ve certainly had worse.”

“No, you don’t have to…I mean, we’re both adults, right?”

“Right,” Sark agreed slowly. He walked over to the window and stared out for a moment, then shut the drapes. 

“We’re going to miss the view,” Sydney protested, taking off her sweater and draping it over a chair. 

He turned. “Honestly, there’s only one view I’m interested in seeing tonight.” He raked his eyes suggestively over her. Sydney laughed, even though her blood was quickly rushing south.

“That’s a great line,” she said. “Does that usually work?”

“Often enough.”

“Well.”

He crossed the room to her. “Can I just…” He didn’t finish that thought, instead he kissed her. It was a soft, sensual kiss, very different from any other time before, and it made her… _melty_ inside, and again there were those damn _feelings_. Sydney bit down on his lip, gently, but also just hard enough to get a message across (even if she wasn’t entirely certain what that message was). But she needed to take control of the situation, she was supposed to be punishing him for last night...and also she didn’t exactly trust this romantic side of Sark. 

While she pondered her next move, she kept kissing him, harsher and deeper, the way it seemed more right. He didn’t appear to be bothered by this, Sydney felt him groan, felt his hardening length press against her.

Handcuffs, that would be a useful thing to have right now, she mused, and the thought spurred her on. She reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. Sark's hand sought her breast, but she slapped him away and willed her trembling fingers to continue undoing the buttons, until she pushed the fabric off his shoulders. He was beautifully toned, all lean muscle…and scars. 

There were several, some faint and older, some newer-seeming, more raised. Sydney traced over a particularly nasty looking one on his shoulder. She wasn’t an expert, but it looked like a knife wound. He shuddered under her touch. 

“What happened?” she asked, trying not to seem shocked.

“Things I regret,” he said simply.

“But…”

“Sydney, _don’t_.” While she was still temporarily distracted, Sark used the opportunity to gain the upper hand, so to speak, reaching under her shirt, finally closing over her breast. As good as it felt, she pushed him away. If he didn’t want to talk about the scars, fine. She’d been a little taken aback, certainly, but there was no way he was going to win this one. 

“Sydney—”

“Shut up,” she told him, working at unbuckling his belt, pushing his pants down his legs. He helped her, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. Their bodies were close to the bed, she gave him a hard shove and he fell (or let himself fall) onto it. 

“All right,” he said, seeming to agree to whatever was going to transpire.

She left her shirt and skirt on, but slipped off her underwear, then climbed onto the bed, smiling down at him evilly. Sydney pulled the skirt up and straddled his waist, resting her clit strategically against his boxer-clad erection, and then began to grind on him, slowly, building a torturous friction from the fabric between them. He tried to put his hands on her again, earning another slap. 

“Still upset about last night I see,” Sark growled. “You were so eager for me, all dripping wet, just—”

Shocking even herself, Sydney reached down and slapped him--across the face. It wasn’t too violent, but not gentle either, and it made an audible _crack_ that rang in her ears. She stopped, opened her mouth to apologize, but to her greater surprise, he moaned—but not in pain—and she felt him grow even harder beneath her. _Curiouser and curiouser_. She moved her hips faster, and her whole body hummed as she chased her own orgasm, using him. Sydney pulled off her shirt, slowing again as she did so, and then her bra. Cupping her breasts in her hands, she pinched her nipples, the sensation going right to her pussy. Sark stared up at her, a predatory hunger on his face as he let her rut against him.

He gave a sharp upward jerk of his hips and in response she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked hard. “No. Not tonight.” She released her grip and kept moving. His eyes were lust-filled and burning, and he seemed to be looking _into_ her, in that way that was both captivating and unsettling--but she refused to look away. She came quickly, her gaze locked with his. 

Truth be told, Sydney wanted nothing more than to actually have him inside of her, but this wasn’t the time, somehow she knew that. Once she was satisfied, she took pity on him, pulling down his boxer shorts. His cock sprang free, thick and angry. Tossing her hair back, she slid down and took him in her mouth, earning a sound between a gasp and a hiss. He arched up, forcing more of his length into her mouth and she relaxed her throat, fighting her gag reflex. Quite well, actually: he was _definitely_ not small.

“Good girl,” he whispered, and Sydney didn’t even mind, she lost herself in the moment, focusing on getting him off, trying not to think about feelings or scars or how fucking hot it had been to slap him, driven only by a perverse need to taste him, to know that she—

It happened, then; he twitched and gave a deep, strangled groan as a spurt of liquid hit the back of her throat, then another. She felt him calm, heard him breathing heavily as she swallowed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took a deep breath, then sat up. Sark looked utterly spent. He looked _beautiful_. Sydney smiled and situated her body alongside his. 

“You’re a demon, you know,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where we start to get deeper into the plot of the story, and it gets just a little weird. I blame the Prednisone that I have to take thanks to a massive asthma flare-up. And I also blame my muse, because she's got a mind of her own. A big thanks to everyone who has been reading this story, I hope you like this next installment. Let me know! :)

She awoke beside Sark the next morning, their limbs intertwined, bodies twisted together intimately. Sydney took a moment to watch him sleep, studying his features. Sleep made him look innocent. Leaning closer, she brought her face against his neck, breathing in the scent of him: still the hint of cologne that she couldn’t place but was sure to be expensive, sweat, musk, the faint tanginess of sex underneath. They hadn’t had sex, exactly, but she still recognized the familiar scent, figuring that orgasm itself changed the smell of a person. All in all, it was different from how he usually smelled: dirtier, less put-together, less controlled. She decided that she liked him this way. 

Her tongue darted out to trail gently over the place where neck met shoulder, tasting. Salt, and something else, rich and espresso-bitter. Not unpleasant. Sydney abruptly pulled away. What kind of freaky pervert was she turning into? First slapping, now licking? Something about the Brat just brought out her weirdest impulses.

The drapes were still closed, but she could see morning light filtering through. Well, it seemed only right to wake beside someone in Paris. She was languid and sleepy, and so, rather than moving to the opposite corner of the bed, she settled herself against him again and fell back to sleep.

When she woke the second time, it was to the sound of water shutting off. Her eyes adjusted to see Sark emerge from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, wet locks of blond hair sticking to his forehead. He smelled different, she could tell, if she licked his skin now he wouldn’t taste the same.

“Good morning,” he said.

 

 

It seemed to Sydney that she was leaving places almost as quickly as she arrived, that she was only getting a brief snapshot of each location, like a postcard that she was sending to herself. She framed the hotel room in her mind’s eye, then also took a photograph of it. Years later, she decided, she’d compare the two, see how her memory held up. See where the differences were.

As they drove to their next destination she sipped black coffee, let it sting her mouth in that wonderful way that good coffee did, the brew heavy and dark. “So, within a few days, I’ll have been to both the north and south of France,” she declared proudly, then added, “You know, I have a feeling about this next place. I don’t know what it is, but I think we might find something there.”

“Do you really?” Sark said. The day was warm and the windows were rolled down, the breeze making his hair attractively unruly. There was a smile in his words, but she could tell that he was humoring her. They hadn’t spoken too much since leaving Paris—since waking, actually—but there had been a companionable silence between them. 

Sydney nodded, then continued reading from the folder. She knew that she should be simply enjoying the drive, drinking in all of the scenery, but her interest had been so piqued that it now felt like there was a prompting itch at the back of her brain. As she turned a page, she noticed something that she hadn’t before: a series of small symbols on the bottom corner of each, always the same ones but in different sequences. On a hunch, she pulled out the infamous drawing to compare. Sure enough, there on the bottom left, were those symbols. Interesting. Sydney wasn’t sure what to make of this, she thought about telling Sark but she knew that he would probably dismiss it as merely another Rambaldi quirk, and so she kept it to herself.

She tucked the sketch away again and went back to the next part of the notebook. ‘ _Nothing above shall linger, it will be covered by the years. This place, full of dead crusaders, ghosts marching in and out of time. Still the mountains cast their shadows, the north and the south and all around. And I, lonely, haunted still by her phantom hands, by the memory of her on my tongue after I last bowed my head to taste her…the taste of my love, all honey and sea_.'

“Man,” she noted aloud, taking another sip of coffee, “he _really_ had it bad for this chick.” 

Sark made a face. “More erotic poetry?”

She read him the lines, and he responded with a customary eye-roll. “It’s not that bad,” Sydney reasoned. “It sounds like he, you know, went downtown at least.” She waved a hand over her lower body. “Some guys won’t do that.”

“Then they’ve no sense of adventure,” he said decidedly. “No real love of the finer things.” After a pause, he added, “I happen to be quite adventurous. I just don’t go prattling on about it.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Sydney, flushing at the memory of his mouth on her, then wondering suddenly how many other women he’d tasted. A kind of jealous curiosity overtook her. “Are we all…” she began, then stopped, then started again, “very different? Women, I mean. Do we all have…different tastes? I’ve never been with another woman, so I don’t know.”

“That is a _terrible_ shame,” Sark declared, crooked lips forming a wicked smile. “But to answer your question, yes. Always. Even the same woman will taste different at different times. It’s all,” he waved a hand, “body chemistry, or whatever. A changeable thing. Like wine, you know. Each and every bottle is unique, the exact same variety of grape from the same vineyard will never produce an identical flavor twice. Well, at least not to someone with a decent palate,” he amended. “There’s simply too many factors operating.”

Sydney nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and the way that perfume or cologne never smells the same in the bottle it as it does when you wear it. And even two people who wear the same scent always wear it differently.”

“Exactly. However, not everyone can pick up on those subtle differences. You happen to be a very sensory person, and therefore you can experience another dimension of the world. That’s why you’re so drawn to wine, and food...and sex. All of those wonderful chemical reactions. And that, my dear, is the beauty of science.”

She smiled. “Or poetry.”

 

 

The sun peeked in and out from behind clouds as they arrived, the day couldn't seem to decide what it wanted to be. Rennes-le-Chateau was another small commune with a gorgeous view of the surrounding mountain ranges. It was an ancient place, made famous more recently after _The Da Vinci Code_ came out. Tourists, treasure hunters and conspiracy theorists had flocked there in droves, looking for gold, or forgotten goddesses, or both. Sydney was struck by the beauty of it, she’d have to be made of stone to not be moved, but something inside of her whispered that this wasn’t where they needed to be. She was almost glad of this; she hadn’t really been a fan of Dan Brown’s novel, and this particular trip would have felt a little contrived had Rambaldi been leading them here.

“This isn’t right,” she said aloud, after they'd make their way up a small hill. She could see the Tour Magdala slicing up against the sky.

Sark glanced over. "What?”

“We’re in the wrong place, I’m sure. This wasn’t where he meant.”

Now he quirked his head to the side and studied her. “What who meant?”

“Rambaldi. This wasn’t the spot he was talking about.”

“Sydney, how could you possibly know that?” His face was amused, but there was something else there in his eyes, something wary. 

“I don’t know! I just…” Sydney huffed and folded her arms. “I just have this _feeling_. It’s strange.”

Coming to stand behind her, Sark put a hand on her shoulder as she bit her lip and stared out at a place where a shard of sunlight hit the mountains. “This is what happens when you start reading too deeply into things," he said. "Your mind makes connections where there aren’t any. Perhaps you wanted to believe it, because it sounds interesting, even romantic. You got caught up in those notebooks, and I’ll admit, this entire area does have a certain mystery to it—that’s what draws so many tourists. Old legends and stories, the faint hope that maybe there’s a hint of truth.” His hand now rubbed comforting circles into her back. “It isn’t _real_ , Sydney, none of it. Rambaldi and Sloane got inside your head, that’s all.”

She didn’t say anything, just kept staring. A cloud covered the sun again. “But look,” Sark continued, drawing closer to her, “look at where you are, how beautiful it is. Can’t that be enough?” His fingers now gently stroked her neck, brushing her hair aside. “And me,” he added, in a soft voice that sent a shiver ghosting over her, “can’t _I_ be enough?”

Rationally, she knew that he was right, and she was probably being silly. All the signs pointed that way, they had since the beginning. He was the expert, after all, and he had told her that this whole trip was essentially a paid vacation to humor a wealthy eccentric. She truly did want to savor each moment, she was lucky to be here, and to have someone to share it with, however aggravating that someone might be, and yet…there was still that strange _pulling_. It wasn’t like the force that drew her to Sark, it was something else, something older-seeming and not entirely benign.

“You’re right,” she said, turning around to face him. “I’m sorry. I got carried away. Just trying to be an adventurer, I guess.” Sydney forced a smile. “Let’s walk around and be tourists. And then let’s find some fancy old inn, preferably in a restored medieval castle, drink some wine, and see where the night takes us.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and she allowed it.

 

 

The feeling did ebb slightly, and Sydney found herself enjoying the day, exploring the sites. She dragged Sark into the infamous Church of Saint Mary Magdalene, where she affected a southern accent and commented reverently on everything. An older lady, dressed in a mismatched outfit that would best be described as ‘thrift-store chic’ came over to her as she was looking down at a Holy Water font supported by a statue of an ugly little demon. “Isn’t this place so fascinating?” she said. She was clearly American, speaking with traces of a Michigan Upper Peninsula accent. “I can’t help it, I love a good conspiracy. Because you just don’t know, right? I mean, they say it’s all a hoax to create tourism, but maybe…”

“Maybe that’s what they want you to think,” Sydney played along. “I know! I’m always saying so…my husband thinks I’m too inclined to believe anything, but having a closed-off mind never got anybody nowhere.” 

Sark, who had been standing a few feet away, glaring up at a statue, seeming very uncomfortable among all the religious imagery, was now looking at her with amusement. She caught his eye and he wandered over to stand beside her. “Don’t I always say that, honey?” she asked, looping her arm through his. 

“You do,” he conceded with a nod. 

“Don’t mind him, he’s _British_ ,” Sydney whispered, as if it were something dirty. 

“Oh,” said the other woman with a nod, giving Sark an appreciative once-over. 

“At least he’s good-lookin’, am I right?” Syd gave a wink . She really was enjoying herself. “It was nice to meet you, maybe we’ll see you later.” She pulled Sark away, until they were outside of the church. Then she burst out laughing. 

He shook his head at her. “You are utterly ridiculous.” He was, however, smiling. 

“I know. Come on, I’m hungry and thirsty and I want to see some castles.” Sydney pulled out the small guidebook that she had purchased and flipped through it. “Let’s go here,” she decided.

“Carcassonne,” he said softly, looking at where she was pointing. 

“Yeah, there’s lots to see, and…” she moved her finger further down the page to where there was a listing of accommodations, “they have a hotel and restaurant that was built on the site of some super-old ruins. We’ve _gotta_ go.”

“All right,” he agreed, still smiling at her enthusiasm, but if she had been paying closer attention Sydney might have seen that the smile no longer reached his eyes. 

 

“Yes, this is the place,” she announced upon arriving at the hotel. She had know it since they'd walked through the door, and she'd practically begged Sark to get them a room. The interior had been modernized and yet there was still the sense of being thrust centuries backward in time. That earlier sensation returned, the one that Sydney had been trying to push away for hours, now stronger than ever. _Here_ , it whispered. _Here_. She valiantly tried to ignore it, to simply focus on having a nice time. Wine was always something that calmed her mind, and so when they were seated at a table in a quiet corner of the hotel's restaurant, she chose a bottle. Most of the wines in this region were blends, which was fine with Sydney. It always made things more interesting, gave her the challenge of trying to pick out each grape.

“So, you’ve been here before, right?” she asked Sark as she toyed with the stem of her glass. 

He nodded. “Yes. Not to this specific village, but I’ve visited the general area several times for business reasons. The wine is very good.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Sydney said, swirling the liquid before bringing it close to her nose. It was primarily a blend of Syrah and Grenache. “Nice and fruity,” she declared approvingly, then took a sip. “Wow, really full bodied. I like it. I like this place,” she added, setting the wine down and leaning back in her chair. “It’s silly, but I feel like I’ve been here before, or something.”

There was a candle on the table between them, and the flame reflected in Sark's large eyes, giving him a sudden otherworldly look. “That’s your imagination again,” he said.

“I know, I know…it just makes you think, doesn’t it? People talk about having past lives.” Sydney shrugged. “Maybe I had one, and it was here. Maybe I was a noblewoman.”

He snorted. “Maybe you were a _wench_.”

“Watch it,” she warned playfully, bringing the wine to her lips again.

“And what was I?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “In this imaginary past-life scenario, if I was with you then, too, what would I have been?”

For some odd reason, Sydney's hand shook a little holding the glass, the hand with the small scar on her palm. She put it down again and looked at him, observing how the candlelight did weird, beautiful things to his face. It was a little spooky, actually, to consider it: that things did repeat in an endless cycle, always bringing the same people together to the same destination for some hidden purpose, some resolution. She hardly knew him now, or so she kept telling herself, how could she have known what he might have been in some hypothetical former life. _Knight, mercenary, assassin. Something with a sword, probably_. Lots of leather and steel. “I don’t know,” she answered. “You’re hard to read.”

He laughed, but the laugh had a sharp edge to it. “ _I_ am?”

“Yes, you are.”

“And what about _you_? You love pretending to be other people. You admitted that it was one of the things that you enjoyed about serving. You said it was like putting on a different wig every night,” he recalled. “And earlier, at the church—it was amusing, and I like to see you happy, but it’s always seemed to me that you are fundamentally uncomfortable with who you really are.”

It was a piercing assessment, but Sydney recognized the truth in it, and the words stung a little. She was silent for a long moment, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip.

Looking apologetic, Sark began, “Sydney, I—”

“What are Cathars?” she asked suddenly. She’d been wondering about the term all day, and it seemed like a good way to change the topic. It was a word that she’d heard somewhere before, in a history class in college, but she’d long ago forgotten any real details.

“Heretics,” he said. “Or at least according to the Church. Their religion apparently started in this area. In the 1200s there was a twenty year campaign to drive them out of southern France. It was called the Albigensian Crusade.”

‘ _And so I went to the place of the heretics, where the glory of Rome had spread long ago_ …’

The words came rushing up from the back of her mind, and Sydney took a long, long sip of wine, draining nearly half the glass, barely even tasting it at all. _It’s just a coincidence_ , she told herself. 

“Are you alright?” Sark asked her, worry punctuating the words. 

“Uh-huh,” she said. “I’m just tired, I guess.” In reality, Sydney was not alright. Everything was starting to seem very strange, that pulling sensation was stronger than ever in the back of her mind, it grew until it was almost an audible whisper, and it was spreading all through her body, pulsing beneath her skin. 

‘ _Dead crusaders, ghosts moving in and out of time_ ’

She closed her eyes, trying to push it all back. The feeling of Sark's hand on hers startled her. “Sydney?” he said urgently.

“I’m good, I swear, I just…can we go to bed? I mean,” she fumbled, “I’d like to lie down. Like I said, I’m tired.”

A deep uneasiness fell around him like a cloak, his shoulders tensed and she didn’t like the sudden change, was unhappy that she’d caused it.

She focused on the feeling of her hand in his, that protective grip which now held more intent than before, but there was something definitely _wrong_ now, inside her head, and it made her restless. Once they were in the room, she tried to sit down on the bed, but the sudden madness seized her again and forced her to stand, to move to the doorway.

“Sydney, what are you doing?” 

Wordlessly, she followed the prompting whispers in her head, let them lead her out the door and down the hall. Sark hurried after her. “Where are you—”

“I have to see…” she mumbled.

“See what?”

At the end of the corridor there was a small door, marked with warnings to keep out. “That’s probably just a closet—”

Sydney didn’t even bother with the knob, for some reason, just threw her body strategically against it as if she were the puppet of some unseen force. The door yielded, creaking open to reveal a dusty, faintly lit stairwell. _Here_. She began to descend quickly, not remotely worrying about the integrity of the wooden steps. Soon the wood ended and became stone as the passage grew older and narrower.

“This was probably sealed up during the renovations, it could be dangerous,” Sark protested, still following close at her heels, his voice tense and annoyed. “And you’re trespassing, you could get us thrown out of here, is that what you want?”

She didn’t answer, _couldn’t_ answer, all she knew was that she was being steered onward; she reached the bottom step and then her feet found the floor. Up ahead, there was a room. “There,” she said, and quickly moved towards it, walking inside. It was an empty chamber, almost like a monk’s cell, some vestige of a much older, forgotten structure. Nothing but more dust and stone.

“Well,” Sark said, scraping a stray cobweb from his hair, “are you satisfied? Are you?” He took her by the shoulders and shook her, hard. “There’s _nothing here_ , Sydney! Stop this nonsense. I mean it, I’ve had enough.”

He was gripping her with such force that she would probably be bruised, but it did the trick. Some of the whispery, pulling haze retreated from her mind, and sense returned. 

“Don’t shake me,” she snapped irritably.

“Don’t be ridiculous, then!” Sark looked angrier than she’d ever seen him, angry and full of dread. “I knew this was a mistake, you’ve gotten too caught up. And for what?” Leaning close, he spoke in a mean, sneering voice, “Just so you could feel important? Your life was too ordinary, you can’t stand the fact that you’re just a _waitress_ , that’s why you pretend all the time.” 

He was deliberately trying to make her angry, to snap her out of whatever had gotten hold of her, and it worked. She raised her hand to hit him and he caught her wrist. “Oh no, my dear, not this time," he snarled. "You are on _my_ terms now, do you understand?”

The electricity that always wove between them amplified a hundred-fold until Sydney could feel it humming in her blood, warring with the invading whispers, trying to drag her away from whatever she was being led towards. She was both grateful and fearful. _A knight, a mercenary, an assassin_. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” she hissed. “And I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you, all you do is confuse me!”

Sark shoved her against the wall, pinning her there. Arousal mixed with the cocktail of anger and adrenaline and licked at her skin like flames. It felt _good_ —as if oxygen was flooding her starved cells. She was more herself now, the whispers were gone. _What was she doing down here_? It was frightening, how she could barely remember anything beyond the dining room, Sark's eyes illuminated by the candle. Sydney forced herself to focus on the pain from his fingers digging into her arms, the weight of him pressing against her, holding her still. 

It happened very fast after that, it was like an extremely taut wire snapping. Their mouths met angrily, he released her arms and her hands were free to tangle in his hair. They were like animals, clawing, warring for dominance, and for a moment Sydney honestly couldn’t tell if they were trying to fuck or kill each other—it was brutal, but _real_ , and she couldn’t get enough. 

Then they were on the ground; first she was on top of him but then he rolled them over, trapping her beneath him again. _More, more, she needed more_ —

She barely noticed the sound of fabric tearing, of her skin being exposed to the air. “Why can’t you just,” he nipped at her breast with his teeth, “be a good girl and _listen_ to me?”

“Shut up!” Her fingernails scratched at the side of his face, raking the skin nearly hard enough to draw blood, and Sydney was appalled by her own violence, yet unable or unwilling to stop herself.

Sark reached beneath her skirt and dragged her underwear down her legs, shoved two fingers roughly inside of her, then started working them in and out while scraping over her clit with his thumb. A moan was ripped from Sydney's throat as her nerve endings fired with the sudden barrage of white-hot sensation. “Stop telling me to shut up!" he growled, his face menacing and cruel and lovely. "You just don’t want to admit to yourself that I..am…what you want.”

“You’re not… _ahhh_ ,” she arched her back and gripped his wrist, forcing him to stop because she did, she wanted—

“Fuck me, Sark,” she whispered. At first he was still as stone, as if considering her words, but then his fingers withdrew from her, he resituated himself, pulled her legs wider apart, and then she felt the head of his cock pressing against her opening, and then his hand on her neck—

“Call me Julian.” The words were like ice, dangerous and cold.

Her head thrashed from side to side, for some reason she just _couldn’t_.

“Goddamnit, Sydney, say my name!”

“No!”

He drove inside of her with a fierce, punishing thrust and she cried out, her voice echoing off the ancient walls. 

She felt…as if this was how they were supposed to be, like it had to hurt to feel so good, like they’d been twisted up in this dark web of love and anger since the beginning of time, and would continue on that way forever. The pressure on her throat increased, not dangerously so, but enough to cut off some of her air, and this only amplified the pleasure. Sydney wrapped her legs around him, arching her back and raising her hips. She could already feel a climax starting deep in her core, each stroke of his cock brought her closer, and Sark must have felt this too, because he squeezed her neck just a little harder, and then she came, her whole body shaking and spasming, clutching around him. His fingers relaxed their choking grip and she gasped in a mouthful of air. He thrust one more time and then she felt him tense, he buried his face in her neck, whispered “Oh, fuck— _Sydney_ ,” and then exploded inside of her with a ragged moan. 

It seemed to take them both forever to come down from it, they remained intertwined, breathing; she could feel his heart pounding against hers, racing and then gradually slowing. Finally, Sark pulled out of her and rolled over, and Sydney found herself missing the weight of him, already, somehow. Her body felt deliciously raw, and she looked up at the ceiling, trying to focus, trying to process what the hell had just happened. And that was when she saw it. 

On a far corner of the wall, what she’d thought was just another stone—from this angle she could see that it was actually a small ledge of some sort, and there was an object sitting on it. Shakily, she pushed herself up, climbed to her feet. Standing on her toes, she reached up and grabbed it. 

It was a corked bottle, nothing fancy about it, just glass covered by layers of dust. It felt heavy and cool in her hands. On the bottom, there was a kind of etching. Her eyes widened. She’d know those symbols anywhere, they were burned into her mind, now, the same that repeated on every page of Rambaldi’s notebook, on the sketch of a face so like hers. Sydney’s heart picked up pace again, and she turned back to Sark, who was looking up at her with disbelief. 

“No,” he whispered.


	11. Chapter 11

It was like Sydney was floating as she let herself be led down the hallway. Her head was buzzing and she could barely feel her feet. Once she and Sark were back inside the room, he gently took the bottle from her hands, and only then did she become aware of how hard she’d been gripping it. 

“Let’s just put this away for now,” he said, opening a small cupboard beside a desk in the corner. Inside was a safe. Did all the rooms have safes? Sydney wondered, blinking. Being out of the secret passageway was slowly clearing her head, grounding her. She drew in a few slow, deep breaths until she felt more solid and normal again. 

“I found it,” she said, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.

Having locked the bottle safely away, Sark stood up and returned to her side. “You found _something_ ,” he corrected. “It needs to be verified by experts.”

She frowned. “But you saw the markings on the bottle…”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s authentic. It could be a forgery. Happens all the time in this business.”

Sydney opened her mouth to say something again, then closed it. Logically, she knew that he was right. The discovery had been almost too easy. Or had it? The memory of being led along by that creepy phantom pulling sent a chill through her. Something far more powerful than simple intuition had been at work. But what did it mean?

She took a moment to look down at herself and cringed—her shirt was ripped, so was her lace bra, and her left breast was practically hanging out. Thankfully, they hadn’t bumped into anyone else on the way back to their room.

And, she reeked of sex, there was a mix of fluids on the insides of her thighs. She felt like she’d run miles. Sore, but in a good way.

“Come on,” Sark said, taking her by the arm and steering her into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and let the water heat up while he began to remove her clothes. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She helped to pull the mangled shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor, along with the rest of the discarded garments.

She stepped in under the spray, silently. The hot water pounded down and eased her muscles. After taking off his own clothes he joined her; Sydney let her eyes rove over his body as her skin remembered the roughness of their earlier fucking. She immediately stirred to life again, hating herself for the way she responded to him. It had been…incredible. Without a doubt the best sex she’d ever had, and this was both irritating and dangerous. Now he was really under her skin. She didn’t want to deal with this yet, so she forced herself not to think about it, even as he gently began to wash her, trailing hands all along her arms, torso, legs—she couldn’t help but wish he’d linger in certain spots, but wouldn’t dare say. She didn’t even want to keep looking at him, beautiful and enticing as he was. It was a monstrous feeling, to want to pull someone as close as possible and yet need to push them far away, someplace safer. 

Still, when Sydney was clean she grabbed the soap and lathered her hands, returning the favor as she lost some battle inside of herself, unable to keep from touching him. They were both quiet while her fingers moved over the scar near his shoulder, felt the difference in texture of skin there. Sark met her eyes for a moment and she took note of the scratch along the side of his face where she’d raked him with her fingernails. The sight of it caused a strange heat to flare deep inside of her, it was a sense of animal possessiveness: she’d marked him and so he was hers. Sydney forced herself to look away, just in case there were _feelings_ hidden in the gaze.

When she stepped out of the shower, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and reared back with a start, seeing that she had various bruises beginning to form all over her body. But then again, she noticed, taking another look at Sark, so did he. Maybe it truly did have to hurt a little to be that good. What did that say about her? Her sex life with Danny had been admittedly on the vanilla side. It was safe and nice but…boring. This, whatever this thing was that she had with Sark, was anything but. It was new and exciting and more than a little kinky. She loved it. And it scared the shit out of her. 

“Yikes,” she found herself saying, pulling her wet hair to the side to more closely examine a red mark on the side of her neck. She wasn’t sure if it had been made by teeth or fingers or both. “I’m gonna need a scarf or something.”

He smiled, and she added, “Hey, I’m sorry about your face.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I’m actually quite fond of it.”

 _Me too_ , she thought, but outwardly rolled her eyes. “Weirdo.”

“Perhaps.” He leaned closer. “But so are you.”

Ignoring the truth of that statement, she moved away from him, wrapping a towel around herself and heading back into the bedroom.

“So we’re going to Spain tomorrow, right?” she said, pulling a hairbrush out of her bag. 

“Well, actually, I was thinking that we’d postpone Medina and go directly to Italy,” he told her.

“Why?”

“I have a good contact there, and he’ll be able to provide us with some better information,” explained Sark. “He’ll only be available for the next few days.”

“Oh. Ok.” This seemed sudden, but not unreasonable. While she ran the brush through her tangled hair, she asked, “Do you think he’ll be able to tell us if the bottle I found is real?”

“Possibly. And…I hope that you won’t be disappointed if it isn’t authentic.”

Suppressing the urge to sigh, Sydney asked, “Why are you so sure it’s a fake.”

“I’m not. But it’s a distinct possibility.”

“Fine, but when I turn out to be right…”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” he said. He spoke coldly, and Sydney noticed that his expression was completely flat and blank again.

She couldn’t understand why Sark didn’t seem the least bit excited about her discovery, if anything he was the exact opposite. Maybe because now he’d actually have to do some work. That was probably it. Still, he was obviously unsettled in a way that was new and Sydney didn’t seek to discuss the matter any further. Tired, she pulled on a shirt and shorts and climbed into bed. She could hear Sark moving around restlessly for a few minutes, looking out the window, checking his phone, before he finally climbed in beside her. He fitted his body alongside hers, draping an arm over her and anchoring her to him almost protectively. He held her like that, tightly, until she fell asleep.

 

 

She’d definitely had a nightmare, Sydney knew when she woke, but couldn’t recall any specific details: it was just that vague, creepy chill in the back of her mind, shadows of ghosts. It was drizzly and cold outside and whatever unique magic the chateau had held the night before was gone and she found that she couldn’t wait to leave.

It wasn’t until they were on the train that she realized that she hadn’t taken any pictures. Somehow this didn’t seem like a great loss. The bottle was tucked safely into a bag that she stored in the compartment above her head. Sydney debated reading on in Rambaldi’s notebook, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the memory of what had happened, that strange force suddenly overtaking her mind. Results or not, it wasn’t something that she wanted to revisit.

“Maybe I’m like, a psychic archaeologist or something,” she remarked jokingly to Sark, in an attempt to finally break the silence that had been following them since the night before.

“That would certainly be interesting,” he said dryly.

“Just think of all the stuff we could find with my powers.”

“You got lucky once. Statistically, I don’t think that’s enough to claim supernatural ability.”

“I never used to believe in any of that stuff,” Sydney admitted. “Francie was all about it, she used to read tarot cards sometimes. Well, she’d read them after a few glasses of wine, anyhow.”

“Anything interesting ever come up?” wondered Sark.

Sydney shrugged. “I don’t think so. I could never make sense of it. It’s all so open to interpretation, it could mean anything.”

“Like the writing in that notebook.”

“I think the notebook is a little more specific than a drunken tarot spread,” she told him.

“Still. It’s open to interpretation, as you said, and hindsight often determines meaning.”

“Whatever.” Folding her arms, she leaned back against the seat, watching the countryside move past outside the window, catching it only in brief flashes. She was always just passing through, it seemed. “I hope it’s warmer in Italy.”

 

X

 

Sark’s contact was an older man in his early fifties by the name of Martin Iacovone, who spoke English with a thick Italian accent. He met them at the station with a wide smile and friendly greeting. As they climbed into the back of his jeep, Sydney tucked the bag with the bottle safely beside her. She felt a small tingle of excitement, hoping that soon she would learn if it was authentic or not. It _was_ warmer here, she noticed, her spirits lifting. Warmer and sunny. Their guide was very talkative as they drove through the countryside, chattering on about wine and saints, and then the conversation moved to Rambaldi. 

“You look like her, you know,” he remarked to Sydney, looking over his shoulder.

She smiled.“The woman in the notebook? Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Maybe you are the Chosen One, eh? Back to fulfill the prophecy.” His tone was joking, but Sydney felt Sark immediately grow tense beside her.

“What prophecy?” she asked. This was not the first time that she’d heard it referenced, but she’d never managed to get the whole story.

“Oh, you don’t know? To some, Rambaldi was a mystic, could see into the future. He would have visions of a mysterious woman, but she wasn’t from his time, wouldn’t be born for centuries. And she would be the one to unite all the components of his formula.”

“What formula?” wondered Sydney.

Martin shrugged. “Not really sure. But it was important to him.”

Sydney was about to ask something else, but Sark reached over and took hold of her chin, gently turning her face so that she could look out towards the right, where, off in the distance a mountain rose against the blue sky.

“Look,” he said, sounding strangely relieved. “Mount Subasio.”

“Wow,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful. I—”

A sudden loud sound tore through the air and then Martin slumped over. Things moved in rapid succession after that. Sark pushed her down and lunged forward to grab the wheel. The car spun sideways and then finally careened to a stop, making Sydney dizzy. She kept her face pressed to the seat for a moment. Silence, then two more loud sounds that she finally registered as gun shots. “Stay down,” he hissed to her, then got out of the car. 

“No, wait—” She reached for him but he was already gone. _The fuck was happening?_ Sydney raised her head to look at the driver. The side of Martin’s head was a mess of blood and he wasn’t moving. Adrenaline took over then, and she ignored Sark’s warning and climbed out of the car, ducking down in the dirt beside the passenger door. She peeked her head around the side and saw Sark a few feet away. He was holding a gun. Her addled mind noted the strangeness of this. _A gun? Why does he have a gun?_ she wondered as she watched him spin around quickly and fire. Someone fell into the grass on the other side of the road. Sydney bit down on her hand to keep silent. She moved slightly, and Sark caught sight of her, or rather, something behind her. Two shots seemed to fire simultaneously and then there was a horrible, searing pain through her left arm. Sydney looked down, saw blood coating her shirt. Her brain barely registered what had happened. Everything was getting cold and fuzzy and she was dimly aware that she was going into shock.

 

X

 

The next several hours were a dark, half-awake blur. She was being carried at one point, then heard a new voice—a woman—and felt the prick of a needle in her arm. There was a crack in the ceiling, wherever she was. Then sleep, and no dreams. Sydney woke to find herself lying in a bed in a large, airy room. It was painted an eggshell white, with gold accents. There was an open window, and a breeze wafted in, rustling gauzy curtains like pale ghosts. Outside, it was near evening. Her arm was wrapped in a bandage. It ached with a deep gnawing throb. Her mouth was as dry as cotton.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair approached her. “Hello,” she said softly, approaching the bed. “I did not expect you to be awake so soon. You are a strong one. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” answered Sydney honestly. “And my arm hurts.”

The woman nodded. “That is to be expected. You were shot. Thankfully, the bullet went right through, and I don’t think there will be much lasting damage. But you must rest awhile, and be sure to not tear your stitches. I can bring you something for the pain.” She spoke with an accent as well, and had a very gentle yet no-nonsense tone. 

“Thank you. I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”

“You can call me Bianca. I’m someone that you can trust. Julian tells me that you’ve been looking for some Rambaldi artifacts.”

“Yes.”

“I’m here to help you get well, not to give advice, but if I were you, I would go home and forget I ever heard of Rambaldi. He brings nothing but trouble,” the woman said firmly.

“I’m starting to get that vibe, yeah,” Sydney muttered, then added, “Can I see J—uh, Sark?”

Bianca nodded again. “Of course. I will send him in.”

“Thank you…for helping me.”

The woman smiled softly and then departed.

 

A few moments later Sark walked in holding a glass of water, which he set down on the small table by her bed. He looked incredibly tired, there were dark circles beneath his eyes. He seemed to have aged several years in the past few hours, and his mouth was set down in a grim, troubled line. “How are you?” he asked.

Sydney glared at him. “I was _shot_.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why?”

He scrubbed a handle over his face, sighed. He seemed to be deliberating over how to answer. 

“And why do you have a gun?” she went on. “Have you had it this whole time? Did you…expect something like this to happen?” _What did I get myself into?_ She silently added.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes. She struggled to sit up, and he moved to help her but she waved him back. “Please do elaborate further.”

“The bottles that we’re looking for, they don’t contain wine,” he began. “At least not according to the people who have a vested interest in finding them. They each supposedly hold a component of some sort of formula that Rambaldi invented.”

“Like what Martin was talking about? What formula, what does it do?”

“I’m not entirely certain. There’s different theories, none of them pleasant. Best I can infer, when combined, the contents of the bottles create a kind of biological weapon. Or, it could be nothing. We simply don’t know.”

She stared down at the bedspread, then at the walls. The room was too white, suddenly. “Is Martin dead?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

Sark nodded. “Yes, he is.”

Sydney drew in a deep breath and picked absently at the bandage on her arm. Too much white, everywhere. She was being consumed by the lack of color. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. “Why would Sloane want us to get him a biological weapon?”

“Sydney, there’s a lot about Arvin Sloane that you, and many others, don’t know. He has his public persona, and then his private face, which is infinitely more sinister. He’s a member of a kind of collective of very powerful people, all of whom are obsessively devoted to Milo Rimbaldi.”

“You’re saying that Sloane is part of some secret society.” It was a funny idea, she realized. Like something out of a book. 

“Yes.”

“That’s _insane_.”

“Certainly, but that doesn’t make it untrue.”

Sydney closed her eyes, pictured Sloane wearing a dark hooded robe at some clandestine gathering, then opened them again. “Actually, I can totally see it. So, who shot me?”

Sark looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up again, but he didn’t meet her eyes when he answered, “There are others who are also aware of Rambaldi, and the bottles, but have taken it upon themselves to make sure that they’re never recovered. They’ve been watching Sloane for some time, were aware that he would probably make a move at some point. They recruited me, and paid me to go undercover and get closer to Sloane, to find out as much as I could about what he was planning.”

Her mouth dipped in a frown. “Recruited you from where? I don’t understand.” _None of this makes any sense. Nothing makes sense and nothing has color…_

He looked directly at her, now. “I’m not really a sommelier. I’m something of a…private contractor. I was in the British Army for a time. After I got out, I became what you might call a mercenary. It wasn’t really intentional, but I took to it naturally. The money was good, I got to travel…”

“Oh my God,” said Sydney, pressing her fingers to her temples, where a pounding headache was brewing. She felt bile rising in her throat and she fought it back. “If all of this is true, why the hell did you drag me into it? Was that all part of some plan?”

Sark leaned forward. “Sydney, Sloane is also obsessed with _you_. He thinks that you are the woman from the prophecy, the woman who will find the bottles, bring all the pieces together. He’s thought it ever since you worked at SD6.”

“And if Sloane is convinced, then this other group that you work for, they also think I’m some kind of…Chosen One?” Sydney reasoned.

“They fear you might be.”

“They’re the ones that shot me.”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

Sydney sat up further, despite the sudden surge of pain in her arm. Around gritted teeth, she demanded, “So, the people that you actually work for, they _shot me_. They killed that man right in front of us! Do you get why this is a little fucking upsetting?”

“I’ve been doing everything in my power to dissuade you from looking for the bottles,” Sark told her. “I’ve never really believed in prophecies, or in Rambaldi, but after last night…I don’t know how to explain it, how you found that thing, how you even knew where to look. I don’t know what to think, now. I never planned on any of this being true.”

She’d never seen him so conflicted, and she didn’t care. She was overwhelmed with confusion and blistering anger and revulsion that she’d let herself be taken advantage of in such a bizarre way. “You’ve all just been using me.”

He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to _protect_ you. I thought that…well, as I said, I was hoping it was all a lie, that we wouldn’t find anything, that Sloane would have to accept that you weren’t the Chosen One and leave you alone, that my other employers would be satisfied, and we could go on our way.”

“You mean that you could go on _lying_ to me about everything! Was seducing me part of your plan the whole time, was that part of your covert assignment?” It made her sick to think about it.

“No,” he told her, the words firm. He reached for her hand, and she yanked it away. “I was advised to get you to trust me, yes, but the rest…that’s all real,” he finished.

“Why in the hell should I believe you?” Sydney was trying desperately to evade the tears that she knew were about to start. The last thing she wanted was to cry in front of Sark. “You lied about literally everything else.”

“Sydney, I’ve been in love with you since I saw you at SD6.”

She let out a strangled, shaky laugh, then groaned and put her head in her hands. “Oh, I cannot believe this. This is fucking _rich_.” She raised her head and looked at him. Even as rage pulsed through Sydney's blood, something inside of her had been affected by what he said, a traitorous, stupid part of her that wanted to believe it was true. Because she’d fallen in love with him, too. And that was what made all of this so damned horrific. 

“So, you’ve conveniently been in love with me this entire time you’ve been paid to insinuate yourself into my life as some sort of weird double agent in a war between two secret societies, over four bottles that may or may not contain some sort of weapon created by a complete whacko hundreds of years ago, hidden and only findable by me, the Chosen One?” she said, voice full of sharp, nasty sarcasm.

“Trust me, Sydney, it hasn’t been convenient at all.” He sounded defeated.

She lay back down, stared at the ceiling. There was no crack. Maybe she’d just imagined it. Or maybe she’d been someplace else, then, some other white room. “I’d like you to leave now.”

“Sydney…”

“No. I mean it. Get out. I don’t want to look at you right now. Don’t make me tell you again.”

She heard Sark get up and cross the room, heard the door shut. A few tears finally rolled down the side of her face. She reached over and grabbed the glass of water. She took a long sip, soothing her parched throat, and then threw the glass at the wall.


	12. Chapter 12

Sydney lay in bed for several hours after that, fuming and crying intermittently, until Bianca had come in and given her two painkillers, which knocked her out into a sleep-landscape filled with strange dreams of blood and the sands of faraway deserts. When she woke, it was night again. It struck her that she’d essentially slept for the better part of two days, had missed the sun completely. Her body and mind had been so exhausted by the entire ordeal that she’d simply shut down. But now she was awake in the vast white room, drapes fluttering creepily around the windows, and she couldn’t stand to be alone there with nothing but her thoughts and the dull ache in her arm. 

She carefully climbed out of bed. After her injury, she noticed, someone had dressed her in a t-shirt and sweat pants that were slightly too large. Sydney caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror on the wall and cringed. She looked frightful: wide-eyed and pale, with her hair a limp, shaggy mess on her shoulders. She wondered dimly where Sark was, then wondered why she cared. She cared because she _needed_ to, she reminded herself. She was in a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language—and people were trying to kill her. 

A pulse of anger went through Sydney at how much he had inadvertently made her dependent on him. As she made her way into the hallway, she took note of her surroundings. She was in a very large house, it seemed, probably a villa. It was beautiful, elegantly decorated, the colors light and calming. She padded along the wooden floor in her socks, pausing in front of a picture on the wall, a framed black and white photograph of a woman with a round, cheerful face and dark eyes that held a kind of secret mischief. 

“That was my mother,” came a voice, and Sydney turned to see Bianca. The woman came to stand beside her, smiling fondly at the picture. “She was pretty,” Syd remarked. Bianca nodded. “Yes, she was full of life. At one point, she wanted to become a nun. Almost did.”

“What happened?”

“She fell in love with my father. Decided that was where her heart lay. A wise decision. I don’t think she would have been a very good nun,” Bianca said with a laugh. “Much too high-spirited.” Then she rested a hand gently on Sydney’s shoulder. “How is the pain?” she asked.

“It’s better,” Syd answered honestly. “Manageable.”

“Julian was very worried about you.”

She took a moment to marvel at how easy it was for everyone else to call him by his first name, when her throat closed up every time she even thought it. “I’m _sure_ ,” she said, somewhat sarcastically.

Bianca shook her head. “I know that you are angry with him. I understand this. I have been telling him for years to stop this work. It’s dangerous. He’s been hurt so many times, and now he’s gotten you hurt. I know he lied to you, he told me. And it was wrong, but…I think, he does this for a good reason. To protect you.”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Sydney, looking down.

“Forgiveness takes time,” Bianca continued softly. “Just focus on cooperation for now. It seems to me that the two of you need each other.”

Sydney’s eyes stung a little, and she hated how true that was, how emotional she was feeling. 

The woman’s sable eyes rested on Syd’s face for what felt like a long time, and she seemed to be recalling something. “You know, you look so much like a young woman who came here many years ago, when I was just a girl. I remember her, because I thought she was so graceful. She could be your mother, you’re so alike.”

Another pang of sadness tore through Sydney at the mention of her mother, who she barely remembered. _Had she been graceful_? She managed a shrug. Bianca patted her on the shoulder again. “Things will get better. You’ve been caught up in something bad, but you’re a strong one, you can find your way out. And you are not alone.” She nodded towards the door at the end of the hall. “Go see Julian. Talk. _Cooperate_ ,” she reiterated.

Grudgingly, Sydney made her way to the slightly open door, nudging it open wider with her foot and stepping inside. Sark turned at the sound, she could see him through the dim light. He still looked ragged and tired, like he hadn’t slept. There were several empty wine bottles on various surfaces, she noticed, this was apparently how he’d been spending his time. 

 

“Sydney,” he said. His voice sounded heavy. 

“Sark,” she replied, moving tentatively forward. They regarded each other in silence for a few moments, stretching out the tension, until she spoke again.

“Look, I don’t…I don’t know what to think about all of this. It’s a hell of a lot to throw at one person all of a sudden. I’m…really confused, and scared, and I feel…I feel alone. And stupid. I feel stupid for agreeing to any of this, for thinking…” She trailed off, then steadied herself and went on, “I don’t know if I should trust you. Part of me absolutely doesn’t want to, but at this point, I don’t really have another choice. If what you say is true.” She chewed at her bottom lip and sank down onto the bed, sitting there for a minute, wrapping her good arm around herself protectively. 

Sark didn’t say anything, but he walked over to her, and when she didn’t tell him to get away, he dropped down so that he was kneeling on the floor in front of her. He waited for her to speak again. 

“What if we gave up?” Sydney asked him. “You know, if we told Sloane that it just wasn’t working out…”

Sark shook his head. “If my employers have been watching us this closely, then so has Sloane. He knows that we found that bottle, and its probably confirmed his belief that you’re…the Chosen One.” He made a face around the words, as if they tasted bad. “At this point we have no choice but to keep going forward. We’re just going to have to be extremely careful.” His hand was twitching, like he wanted to reach for her but kept deciding against it.

Somehow, Sydney had known that it couldn’t be easy, that they had to finish what they started. “I’m scared,” she admitted again, hating having to say it, hated feeling weak in front of him.

“So am I,” he said honestly, looking up at her. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Like what? An unmitigated disaster?”

“ _Real_. See, I was foolish. I thought of this assignment—Rambaldi, Sloane—as a kind of game. And you and I could play together. I’d show you countries you’d never seen, and maybe get you to fall in love with me along the way. I was very stupid, and very naïve. And I underestimated you as well. I knew you were talented, certainly. Unique, absolutely. But not the Chosen One. I was so certain that there was no such thing, that my employers and Sloane were delusional and after it was all over, we could get paid and walk away. Hopefully together. But no. You just had to be real, didn’t you?” Sark gave her a lopsided smile.

“I guess so,” Sydney answered flatly. She felt hollowed-out. “Could we just…run? Go to Iceland or something?” She was only half-joking. Or maybe not, she couldn’t tell anymore. 

He pulled a face. “Iceland? Why would you want to go there?”

“Because it’s beautiful. And they have one of the highest literacy rates in the world.” She’d heard that somewhere. “Also, it’s really far away.”

“Yes, it is, but not so far that Sloane couldn’t find us, you know that. He has connections all over the world.”

“I had no idea I was working for an international criminal. I thought he was just this creepy guy.”

“He _is_ a creepy guy, just a very wealthy and well-connected one with monomaniacal tendencies.”

“Joy.”

Silence wove between them again for a moment. He was still on his knees. That was where she liked him, her traitorous mind recalled. Sydney didn’t want to think about that now. “This is a nice place,” she commented, looking around the bedroom, which was painted a soft green color. It seemed more welcoming and alive than hers, less like a sickroom. 

“It is," Sark agreed. "I’ve been here before. Bianca’s helped me a few times when I’ve been…in a bad situation.”

Sydney remembered the woman telling her that, and she thought of all the scars on Sark’s body, wondered how many of those injuries he’d recovered from here. 

“I just don’t really like my room, though,” she went on, wondering why in the hell she was suddenly telling him this. “It’s too…pale.” White, like the color of bone and old institution walls.

“Would you like to stay in this one?” he offered.

“With you?”

“If you like.”

“I…”

He sighed. “Look, I understand if you’re disgusted with me. And if you never want to touch me again, I’ll accept and live with that. But I _am_ going to keep you safe. And I’m going to get you out of this, I swear, but you have to trust me for just a little while longer. I’d just feel better if you were close, that’s all.”

Sydney nodded, finding herself exhausted again. The conversation had fatigued her, and so she lay back onto the bed and closed her eyes. 

 

Some time later in the night, or perhaps the early morning, she woke, and through the darkness of the room she could glimpse the outline of him, sleeping on a chair by the window. Sleep had perhaps disarmed her a bit, because she called out “Sark?” and he stirred. 

“What’s the matter, Sydney?” he asked, blinking, sitting up abruptly like he expected something awful to be happening.

“You don’t need to sleep over there,” she mumbled. “You can sleep in the bed, just stay on your own side and don’t touch me. I’m still mad at you.” She thought she saw him smile as he got up and crossed the room, moving like a shadow. The bed dipped as he climbed in beside her and Sydney blearily recognized the warm feeling in her stomach as a kind of relief. She chalked this up to being only half awake, and didn’t think on it too much as sleep quickly claimed her again.

The second time she woke it was after another half-remembered nightmare—she’d been drowning again, this time. She turned over to find Sark still sleeping, deeply, it seemed: he looked relaxed for the first time in days. _Had it been days? How long had they been here?_ Sydney couldn’t tell, she’d slept through it all. 

She found herself studying him again, it was definitely becoming a habit, to watch him when his eyes were closed. She felt safer that way, because he couldn’t see inside of her. Sydney thought about how she’d never wanted to ask Sark any personal questions. Had she, on some level, known that he wasn’t who he claimed to be, wanted to spare him having to lie to her? No, that couldn’t be. Yet strangely, now she _wanted_ to ask, wanted to know. Her hand moved, ghostlike, fingers coming to rest on his shoulder, the scars she knew were there beneath the thin cotton shirt. How many people had he killed? she wondered with a shudder as she trailed her fingers up to his throat, felt his pulse thudding steadily. She let herself entertain a weird fantasy in which she was a secret agent, only pretending to be Sydney Bristow, waitress extraordinaire. She’d also been undercover this entire time. Her mission was to collect the pieces of the formula and then destroy them, to wipe every trace of Rambaldi from the planet so that there could be no more cults or prophecies or Chosen Ones. She’d turn the tables on Sark— _see, it was all a lie, you never hurt me, you never got under my skin, I was faking it, I was playing you_. At first she smiled at the thought, but then the smile faded. No, not in this life. The damage had already been done. And no matter how many times he’d gotten on his knees or let her pin him underneath her, in the end she’d be back at his mercy, with his hand around her throat and she’d be hating herself for how much she _liked_ it.

She stared down at him, still feeling the heartbeat and rush of blood beneath her fingers, thinking about the thin frailty of human skin. Of love.

 

The next morning, her sleep cycle seemed to have finally righted itself, and Sydney felt somewhat more normal. Her arm, while it still ached, was not nearly as painful as it had previously been, and Bianca was astonished at how quickly she was healing. It would be awhile, though, before she was completely back to normal, or even before she could bathe and get dressed by herself. This had been discovered the hard way, when Syd went to take a shower, which she desperately needed. While trying to pull the shirt over her head she’d gotten stuck. Sark had heard her cursing loudly and come in. To his credit, he didn’t laugh at her—much—but he did chastise her for not asking for help. Much as she’d hated to admit it, he was right, and after a brief argument during which much colorful language was used, Sydney allowed him to help—on the condition that he not look at her. This did seem a little ridiculous, she was aware, he’d certainly seen all of her before—but that was _before_ , and it didn’t count. So she found herself in another shower with Sark— _hadn’t they just done this?_ —and she let him wash her hair but refused to let him touch the rest of her, and kept her eyes as far away from his body as possible. 

 

It felt nice to be back in her own clothes again; their bags had been recovered from the jeep at some point, the bottle and the folder and the box with the key that was still tucked away. Sydney hadn’t told Sark about it, because she wasn’t sure what it meant. It was just an heirloom, but now she’d begun looking at everything differently, with a new wariness, as if nefarious objects were hiding in plain sight all around her.

“So what do we do now?” she asked him, as she finished combing her hair. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“No, we can’t,” he agreed. “As I said, we continue on for now. We’ll figure out what to do with the bottles later. And we’re going to need to exercise a lot of caution, throw everyone off.” He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair out of her eye, then said, “You’re going to get to pretend to be different people, your favorite thing.”

“Fine, but I get to pick the names. And the outfits,” Sydney decided. 

“Can I pick at least _one_ outfit?” he wondered. 

“No,” she answered firmly. She was struck by the oddness of how normal their interactions still felt. At first she assumed that the dynamic of their relationship, whatever that was, had been forever altered, but really, it hadn’t. Not that much. She was still having those same treacherous feelings for him, was still very much attracted to him despite everything, and this bothered her. What did that say about her principles? Surely she had some of those. 

 

Bianca said that she would have preferred them stay for another day or so, but she understood that they needed to move on. She hugged them both, and marveled once again at how strong Sydney was, then said, “You were never here, I know,” with a nod at Sark. He nodded back at her, then turned to Sydney.

“Ready to become someone else?” he asked.

“Looking forward to it,” she sighed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who has been reading this story and left kudos, I really appreciate it! I'm amazed by the response to this and my other Alias stories, I thought that nobody was ever going to read them. You guys are awesome! Here is another chapter for you, please leave a comment if you want, I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)

They’d been in Malta for the past few days, laying low in a rented house right by the water. Much of the time had been spent attempting to plot their next move. Before they went looking for the rest of the bottles, they needed to find out a little more about who would be using them and what for. 

“We need to figure out the key players in Sloane’s organization,” Sark said as they sat in the kitchen. Evening was gathering outside the windows. Sydney worked to open a bottle of wine; she was amazed at how fast her injury seemed to be healing. Truth be told, she was a bit freaked out by it. She decided to add it to the growing list of freaky things in her life recently. It seemed like these might become the new normal.

“Don’t pop the cork,” he warned.

Syd rolled her eyes and Sark grinned at her. The cork did not pop, it slipped easily from the bottle and she poured herself a glass. She climbed up to sit on the marble counter top, her tanned legs dangling. The window was open and she took a moment to breathe in the smell of a different part of the world. It smelled like golden amber and sea and quiet. Quiet had a smell, Sydney was learning. It was soft and subtle, and more prominent when the sun was setting. 

“Do we know exactly what they’re planning to do if they get all the pieces of the formula?” she wondered, turning back to him. “Like, say the worst case scenario is right, and it is some sort of weapon—are they planning to use it? How could they, though,” she mused, taking a sip of the Moscato, “unless they have some idea of what it does? Do you think that maybe Rambaldi left behind an instruction manual?”

“Possibly.”

“Maybe Sloane or one of his pals already has it, they just don’t have the parts,” Sydney continued. “Or…it could be that they don’t want to use it at all, maybe they’re planning on selling it, like to a terrorist group.” She shivered. “Either way, I don’t think it will end well.”

“I just really wish we had something more to go on,” he said. He closed the laptop and got up from the table, rubbing his eyes. Sydney stared at the folder on the counter, still filled with Rambaldi’s writings. She’d been staunchly ignoring it as best she could. As if he could read her mind, Sark asked, “Have you looked at any of that recently?”

Sydney shook her head. “No. And I know that I’m going to have to, eventually…there might be something there that can give us more insight into what we’re actually dealing with, what he intended the formula to be used for.” She took a long sip. At first the wine had been almost nauseatingly sweet and had smelled intensely of blood oranges, but now it was growing on her. “I still don’t buy it. How could he have created a potential weapon that long ago and have it still be a threat today? He didn’t have access to any real technology, and whatever components he used have probably degraded and are harmless by now.”

“Perhaps they are,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “Maybe it was never meant to be anything at all. Maybe he had a very odd sense of humor and this was his idea of a joke.”

“Ha fucking ha,” was Sydney’s dry response. “Me and the hole in my arm are so very amused.” She swirled the wine, even though it was a Moscato, finding the motion calming, then took another drink, hoping it would ease the knot of fear in her stomach, the one that grew every time she thought about what had happened to her at the chateau in Carcassonne. “I don’t want to read any more of that, I don’t want to find the rest of the bottles. I know I have to, but…god, that awful feeling. It was like being possessed, like something was climbing inside of my head. I can’t explain it.” 

Sark was standing beside her now, his hand resting comfortably on her shoulder. “It was very old…and it felt really sinister,” she went on. “Hungry.”

“I know,” he said. “And I can’t explain it either, not in any rational way. I wish you didn’t have to do this, and I hated seeing it happen to you. But whatever that thing really is, you are stronger than it.”

“I don’t want to get lost,” she said. The words were barely more than a whisper.

“You won’t,” he assured her. “I won’t let you.”

 

X

 

There was too much to think about, it all raced through Sydney’s head and made her crazy. Malta was beautiful, but it felt so _impermanent_ , even more so than the other places they’d visited; she knew that soon they’d be dragged from the island and back into the slipstream of this terrifying mission. She had no idea what she was doing, and though Sark had…experience with this sort of thing, she feared that he was probably out of his depth too. They were essentially making it up as they went along. The two of them, with powerful enemies on all sides; even Rambaldi seemed to be taunting them from beyond the grave. Being cooped up in the house was going to drive her mad, she needed to get outside.

“I want to go swimming,” she said abruptly, wandering into the living room where Sark was once again glued to his laptop. “Do you think my stitches will be ok?”

He paused in typing and inspected her arm. “Yes, actually. In fact, they can probably come out later today. I’ve never seen a wound heal this quickly, it’s remarkable.” His fingers lingered an extra-long while on her skin, ever so gently tracing over the jagged stitches. The look in his eyes was pained and far-away, it reminded her of the photo she'd taken of him while he was staring out at the horizon on Mont Saint Michel. 

Moving quickly away from him, she said, “Cool. I’m gonna get changed.”

“Sydney, I’m not sure if…”

She knew that tone, knew he had reservations, and was determined to not care. “Look, if anyone knew where we were, they probably would have made their move already. The water is right outside. I just need a few minutes.”

Recognizing the pleading look on her face, Sark relented. “Fine, a few minutes.”

 

The water was very calming. The ocean was something that Sydney had always loved, to be encompassed by a force so ancient and vast and powerful made her head clear, filled her with a sense of serenity. She waded out until she was halfway submerged in the Mediterranean Sea. A small wave rolled up, crashing against her shoulders. She ducked underneath it for a moment, down beneath the cool water, feeling so tiny inside of it. Nobody would look for her here. She wasn’t Chosen by anyone. Not a face in a drawing, a specter traveling in and out of time, chased by fate. Just a faceless part of an endless ocean. 

A burning in her lungs made her rise to the surface, and she turned and waded back to the shore. Sark was standing by the water’s edge, looking relieved and annoyed. “What?” she asked.

“I couldn’t see you,” he mumbled crossly. “You just vanished.”

Sydney rolled her eyes. “I was under the water, dummy.”

“You were down there quite awhile.” His expression lightened a bit as his eyes raked over her, clearly admiring her wet body in the two-piece bathing suit she wore. “Perhaps you’re part mermaid as well.”

“I’ve always been able to hold my breath for a long time.”

He gave her a sideways grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She brushed past him again with another eye roll. “Come on. I need a drink.”

 

 

A bottle and a half of wine later and they were both feeling pretty good. Sark was laying on the floor, flipping through _The Decameron_. Sydney was sprawled on the couch, her feet resting on his chest. “I don’t know why you brought this thing,” he said. “It’s drivel. You should have brought Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_. That’s an excellent read.”

“ _In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora_ ,” she mumbled around a sip of wine.

“Show off.”

Sydney laughed lightly. “Truth be told, I don’t know why I brought it, either. I just felt like maybe it was important, somehow. Had…clues or something.” 

“I think it’s a red herring,” Sark decided. “Misdirection.” He pulled the infamous picture out from between the pages and examined it. “Such a boring sketch, really. He could have at least drawn you nude.”

She kicked him gently in the rib with her bare foot.

In the distance, she could hear the ocean, always moving. “How do we know what’s real or not?” Sydney wondered aloud, pulling herself up into a cross-legged position. “I mean, ok, logically we say that ghosts aren’t real, but pretty much every person you meet has a story about some supernatural experience they’ve had. Vampires aren’t real, but nearly every culture on the planet has a version of them, some dating back thousands of years. We like, collectively deny and acknowledge the existence of something at the same time. It’s this weird duality. So, who’s to say for certain about anything? Maybe whatever we can conceive of is actually possible?”

“I suppose.” Sark was thoughtfully tracing his fingers along the edge of the drawing. “I wonder more about parallel universes.”

“How so?”

He collected his thoughts, then spoke, his voice made low and thick by the wine, “Perhaps, in another universe, right next door to this one, there’s a you and a me, but we’re different. Our lives, our circumstances. Maybe we know each other, but the context is changed.”

“Enemies,” Sydney declared suddenly, pouring the remainder of the wine into her glass.

He looked up at her. “What?”

She swallowed. “I know what you mean. I think that in a parallel universe, we’re enemies. I have these dreams, sometimes…and I only started having them after I met you. They’re so real. And in them we’re always adversaries, always trying to hurt each other. You’ve had dreams like that, too, I remember you told me.”

“I know,” he admitted. “And it’s an interesting thought. But even…” he folded the drawing and put it away. “Even in that dream, when you were my ‘enemy’, it wasn’t that simple. If the impossible is possible and it was some sort of glimpse into this other life, that other me…he still loved you. That version of you. I could feel it…it was _violent_ , strangling. But she didn’t love him. And that made him hate her, too. He wanted to fight her because that was the only way they could be together. When they were hurting each other, she belonged to him, and it felt like we—like _they_ —were the only two people in the world. It just seemed so…unfair. Whoever that man is, that other me, I feel sorry for him.” Sark was quiet for a long moment. Outside, the afternoon had swiftly bled into an evening that seemed to finally stop and catch its breath. “But no matter. It was just a dream.”

Sydney stretched out on the couch, feeling suddenly strange and haunted. When she closed her eyes she could still feel the sea surrounding her, rocking her. For some reason, this made her want to have Sark close to her, to touch him, and so she reached down and ran her fingers along the side of his face, tracing his cheekbone. She was calmed by this, the phantom ocean and the knowledge that he was there, right under her hand. 

“ _I speak of forms changed into new bodies_ ,” she heard him say as she fell asleep.

 

 

Luckily, they caught a break the next day, and one of Sark’s contacts had come through with some information. “Armand Rosier,” he said, pulling up a file on his computer and pointing to a photo of a severe-looking man with dark eyes. “He’s an art dealer by trade, and from what I can tell, he’s a member of the same organization as Sloane.”

“An art dealer?” repeated Sydney.

“Yes, and according to my sources, he’s going to be in Madrid in just a few days for a conference.”

Her stomach dropped sharply. _Here we go again_ , she thought. She knew that they could only hide here for so long. The thought made her want to walk out into the ocean and never come back. “So we get to go to Spain after all,” she said with a sigh. She sank down into a chair at the table and dejectedly rested her chin on her hand. “Sucks that we never really got to see much of Italy,” Sydney remarked. Getting shot immediately after arriving had certainly abbreviated the trip. “I was looking forward to it.”

“Chances are we’ll be back there before too long, I wouldn’t worry.”

She groaned and dropped her head onto the table with a thunk. “I take it back,” she mumbled against the wood. “I’m sorry I ever wanted this to be anything more than a vacation.”

“It’ll be fine, Sydney, we’re just going to take everything one day at a time,” Sark said calmly. He took hold of her shoulders, dragging her up. “C’mon, love, don’t mope.”

“This is a very rational amount of moping, considering what we’re dealing with,” she told him pointedly.

He pressed a quick, impulsive kiss against her forehead. “I know, but it won’t do any good.”

“Bleh,” was all she said in response to that. She let Sark pull her against him, rested her head against his chest. She could feel the vibration as he, inexplicably, started to sing to her.

“ _When you’re sad, it makes me feel the same as you…come to me, my melancholy baby_ …” 

She let herself smile. “You have a nice voice,” she said.

 

X

 

She was very nervous. The conference was to be held the following evening at a large hotel in downtown Madrid; afterwards there would be a gathering in the lounge. Apparently Mr. Rosier loved to drink. They had arrived in Spain earlier that day and were staying at a hotel a few blocks away.

“So what exactly are we gonna do?” Sydney asked, nervously pacing the floor, staring out the window and willing the sun to not set. “Spy on him? Get him drunk and just hope that he happens to open up about his diabolical plans?”

Sark observed her twitchy meanderings with wary amusement. “People often reveal more than they realize. We’re simply going to watch closely.”

“Uh huh.” She was now closely inspecting all the surfaces of the room. “Are you sure you checked for bugs?”

He sighed deeply. “I’m sure.”

“What if you missed one? What if they have super high-tech ones?”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“That’s very funny. I think Chosen Ones have a right to paranoia.”

“The Chosen One can have a right to her own damn room,” he threatened. “I won’t check it, either.”

Sydney knew he was bluffing but she still forced herself to be less frantic.

“Pick your name,” he said, in a tone she recognized. It was the voice he used when he was trying to distract her.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to pick your name. Obviously we won’t be going there as ourselves. I can get us some fake credentials, it’s surprisingly easy.”

Thankfully, Sydney was distracted by this task. And she had just the name in mind. Thankfully, she got to pick this one herself. In Malta, he’d chosen Diana Halloway for her, and she’d hated it, even after he told her that he’d picked it because she reminded him of a Roman goddess. That was cheap flattery.

“Ok. Elizabeth. Elizabeth Graham.” She had decided as a teenager that this would be her pseudonym if she ever became a novelist.

“Really?” Sark’s eyebrow was raised and there was an incredulous expression on his face. 

“Yes,” she said defensively. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, _Lizzy_. It’s just a little…boring, that’s all.”

“It’s not boring!” she shot back. “It’s elegant. Distinguished.”

“Fine, have it your way.” His fingers moved over the keyboard. “Elizabeth Graham, you are a professor of art history. Would you like to work at Northwestern University in Illinois, Trinity College in Dublin, or…” Sark peered closer at the screen, “the University of Calgary. Ugh.”

“Trinity College,” she answered.

“That’s in Ireland, love.”

“Don’t call me love,” she said calmly. “I _know_ it’s in Ireland. That’s why I want to work there.”

He seemed interested. “Well, are you Irish, then, in this scenario? Can you do a passable Irish accent? I can. I went to boarding school in Ireland for many years,” he said, and she noticed that his voice had taken on the characteristic sound. Not a bad thing, she decided. It was sweet and rolling and sent a feeling like fingers gently running along her back. “See, the trick is to not come over sounding like a stereotype, which for Americans is sometimes harder.”

Sydney frowned. “I can be subtle,” she said.

“Alright,” he said, slipping back into his normal voice. “But accents are tricky things. How about this…you, Elizabeth, are originally from the States, but you took a job in Ireland years ago because your husband is from there.”

“My husband,” she echoed.

“Yes. I’m an art critic.”

Folding her arms, Sydney scoffed. “You are _not_ my husband.”

“Of course not. But maybe I’m…Eliot Graham,” he punched a few more keys, “and maybe he is.”

“Ugh, no way. I’m not being married to you for this.”

He seemed amused. “You were fine with it at that church in France.”

“That was different.” That was before. “You can be my brother,” she went on.

“We look nothing alike,” he remarked.

“You were adopted.”

A delighted smiled played at the corners of his lips and she knew that she was probably going to be horrified by whatever he was about to say next. “No, you were adopted, which will explain your muddled accent. I picked you out at the orphanage myself, I said ‘Mummy, I want that one.’ ”

Against her will, Sydney let out a laugh that then dissolved into a groan. “You’re going to make this weird, aren’t you?”

“Oh, _immensely_.” He winked at her. “Be careful what you wish for, Lizzy.”

How true that was.

 

 

True to his word, Sark had somehow gotten them both onto the list for the conference, and mysteriously procured very real-looking identification just in case. 

“Are you ever going to teach me how you do all this stuff?” Sydney asked as she worked to step into the black dress she was wearing. It was knee length and had sleeves that came down to her elbow, which would cover the wound on her arm. She was also wearing the garter belt that she’d worn to Sloane’s party, but it only because she’d brought it anyhow and it would go well with the dress.

“Yes, but not yet. I don’t want you to know all my secrets, after all. It would take away the mystery.” 

She stepped out from behind the door. “Help me with the back of this?” she asked, and Sark obliged. As he pulled up the zipper, his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back—deliberately, she was sure—and a tremor moved through her.

He moved aside, watching her as she went over to the night table and picked up the auburn wig. As Sydney worked at securing it over her hair, she said, “I really hope nobody asks me too many questions about art history, or university policy or anything.” She’d crammed in quite a bit of research over the past day and a half, wanting to appear somewhat legit in case anyone spoke to her directly.

“I don’t think you need to worry too much,” Sark told her as he worked at tying his tie. It reminded Sydney of that time back at The Agency. Her mouth went dry and her neck felt naked and too-exposed and L.A. just seemed like a strange dream she’d once had on an airplane. “At these things, people split into groups and do a lot of talking amongst themselves, it’s very cliquey,” he went on. “If anyone does talk to you, just keep it light. Though, I am interested…what period in art history is Elizabeth’s specialty?”

Sydney found her voice. “Ancient through pre-Renaissance.” She’d decided upon this the previous evening while she was frantically searching the internet for facts. Ancient history in general had always interested her, and she wanted to stay away from the Renaissance proper, as it smacked of Rambaldi.

“Really? Interesting.”

“Yeah, she digs Etruscan pottery.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Sark slipped on a pair of eyeglasses and her heart caught for a moment at how nice he looked, how sophisticated. He’d combed his hair differently. All in all it was a very simple change, but it had somehow indeed transformed him. They stood side by side in front of the mirror, and their reflections seemed pleased.

 

X

 

“This might be the fanciest party I’ve ever been to,” Sydney remarked, trying desperately not to feel overwhelmed as they entered the hotel lounge. The conference had actually not been as boring as she expected it to be, and she found herself taking mental notes on several occasions.

“Even fancier than Sloane’s?” Sark asked, smirking.

“Well…” her face grew warm at the memory.

“And here we are again, at a fancy party full of wealthy people, talking about art and sex.”

Sydney blinked. “We aren’t talking about sex.”

“The night is young.” He brushed a hand against her ass. “Come on, Elizabeth, darling, tell me about your Etruscan pottery.”

“Stop,” she hissed, suppressing the urge to laugh. “You’re supposed to be my _brother_ , for god’s sake. And we’re trying to be low-key, nothing attracts attention like siblings groping each other, look what happened with Angelina at the Oscars that one time.”

“Nobody knows who we’re supposed to be,” he said calmly. “Or who we are. Just us. Fade into the scenery, darling. You’ll see better that way.”

She thought about telling him not to call her darling, but she realized that she didn’t mind it. It was an old-fashioned, silky word and it made her warm to hear him say it, though she would never admit that.

Fade into the scenery. It was actually easy, she mentally took a step back from everything, releasing her hold on the room, the fear that acted as her gravity. She was nothing. It was like being in the ocean again, beneath the wave. 

“I feel like I’m in a painting,” she said. A random face in a crowd, a swirl of color, blurry and nondescript, part of a larger organism. 

“You make an excellent muse,” he murmured, taking her by the arm.

 

 

Armand Rosier was even scarier-looking in person. He looked like the sort of man who could hunt a wild boar and eat it raw. He didn’t seem like an art dealer, but then again Sydney didn’t really know any and couldn’t honestly say for sure what one was supposed to be like. Still, her anxiety climbed as she studied him covertly from where she and Sark were now seated beside one another at a small table. The knowledge that he was in league with Sloane was enough to make her blood pressure reach dangerous heights. Rosier was talking with another equally scary-looking man, gulping intermittently at a glass of Scotch. The intel was correct, he did love to drink. And he also seemed very fond of a small leather briefcase that he kept close beside his feet, she hadn’t seen him without it the entire evening, and often he looked down at it, as if checking to make sure it was still there. Sydney took hold of her vodka and tonic, trying to cool her sweaty palms. Fading into the background had worked for a little while, but now she was too solid-feeling, standing out too vividly. If she didn’t calm down soon she feared she’d wind up having a massive panic attack and running out the door. 

Then several curious things happened in succession. Sydney felt Sark’s hand come to rest on her thigh and suddenly the world went still. A change passed through her senses, heightening them. She was almost too sensitive, she could zero in on a conversation across the room, the clinking of glasses. His heartbeat. Her heartbeat. It was disorienting, but not frightening in the way that her episode in France had been. It was cool, delicate, like a ghosting of silk, curtains moving in the breeze. For some reason, she trusted it. His hand moved higher, slipping deftly beneath her skirt and hovering there for a moment. Her eyes fell closed. _The briefcase_ , her mind spoke. _Get the briefcase_. 

The thought was startling in its clarity. How? Said briefcase was tucked beside Rosier’s chair. What was in it? She could hear the low scrape of a fork against a plate, the distant pop of a champagne cork, laughter. 

Sark’s fingers now grazed her mound through her lace underwear and she shivered, a slow movement that traveled languidly along her spine. Sydney thought about telling him to stop, but then realized she didn’t want him to. Despite the inappropriateness of his actions given where they were, she felt excited, alive. That was the danger of him, Sydney realized. Sark pulled her from her comfort zone, exposed her raw nerves to the air, ripped her apart and put her back together, dragged away the mask and showed her real face. It was so new, so precarious, like the first day of spring, earth begging for sun. He touched her in a calm and almost lazy, detached way, very light, giving her just enough stimulation to keep her on edge but not overwhelm her. 

_The briefcase. Get the briefcase_.

But there was no way. It was too close to Rosier. There was so much security here, she couldn’t risk getting caught. What if someone recognized them? Surely by now both groups must have caught on to them, right?

“What are you thinking?” Sark asked, leaning by her ear, the low voice and warm breath against her neck making her heart speed up. 

“See the leather case on the floor by his chair?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“There’s something important inside. Something we need.”

He paused a minute, his hand stilled. She could feel him thinking.

“How do you want to do this?” he asked.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends! Here is yet another chapter for you. Thank you once again to everyone who is reading this, especially everyone who left kudos. I'm really in love with this crazy story, and I'm glad other people seem to like it, too. Please let me know what you think! :)

“How do you want to do this?” Sark asked, looking at the case, feeling like a madman, half-wanting to laugh hysterically at the predicament in which he’d found himself. Beside him, Sydney had gone very still, and she had that strange, faraway sort of look in her eyes that he’d come to dread. He knew that whatever she needed it for, it was probably important—meaning it would also most likely get one of them killed. He did not like anything about this assignment, what it was turning into—except for _her_ , obviously, and she was the only reason he was still around, seeing this insanity through to the end. 

His loyalties in the past had often been flexible, but he’d come to realize that he was willing to take a bullet for this woman—a very new feeling, as he’d spent the majority of his life looking after nobody but himself. He was going against all of his instincts, being here with her like this. It really wasn’t safe, he shouldn’t be putting someone with no training or experience whatsoever into harm’s way, and yet…he trusted Sydney. That trust was new, too, it was a feeling that burned inside of his chest. She was important, somehow, he’d seen it. Sark had always known that she was so much more than what she pretended to be, and on some level he was sure that she knew it too, that was why she always fell into character. That tendency was charming and annoying. If they were going to get through this she’d have to eventually become completely and overwhelmingly herself, possibly for the first time. And afterward, if he was lucky, her fondness for role-playing could be put to better use. 

Maybe he was suicidal, Sark mused, still studying the briefcase on the floor by Rosier’s feet. Not actively so, but perhaps he did have some kind of Freudian death wise. Or maybe he was just in love. Either way, it wasn’t good, but this was clearly of importance, and so he needed to make it happen.

“What if we…” Sydney began, but was interrupted as the entire lounge was suddenly plunged into darkness. 

“What the hell?” whispered Sark. A very bad feeling quickly gathered inside of him, like a warning, as pale emergency lighting flickered on, illuminating the confused faces of all the guests. Then an immense sound, an explosion that seemed to come from the adjoining room. Without thinking, he threw himself against her, knocking them both to the floor. People began screaming, chaos filling the space as an emergency alarm started to wail. 

Sark scrambled to his feet, grabbing Sydney’s hand and pulling her up after him. People began stampeding for the exits as smoke filled the room and debris fell from the ceiling. 

And at that precise moment, Armand Rosier clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor, presenting them with a unique opportunity. The briefcase was lying under an overturned chair, and the large man was clearly distracted by a massive heart attack. Sark quickly scanned the surrounding area. Rosier hadn’t been sitting too far from the doors to the kitchen. They were on the ground floor, and he knew basic restaurant layout enough to gather that there would most likely be a rear staff exist, opening onto the street. His eyes met Sydney’s for an instant, he saw the flash of intent there, and then she bolted, snatching up the briefcase, running with it through the double doors marked ‘Employees Only.’ 

_Good girl_ , he thought, keeping up with her as they raced through the kitchen to find, sure enough, a back exit. Then they were in an alley, in the cool night air, sirens becoming audible in the distance. There were a few other people gathered there, panicked serving staff who had run, but nobody was really paying attention to the two of them, thankfully. Sark took hold of Sydney’s arm, and they ran again.

 

After about half a block, they paused. It wouldn’t be good to go walking back into the hotel looking the way they were, all filthy and mussed, like a bomb had literally exploded around them. It was far too conspicuous. Emergency vehicles roared by, on the way to the scene. They ducked inside a small coffee shop. Sydney drew in a few deep breaths, then handed the briefcase to Sark. Her ears were ringing, her heart was pounding like a jackhammer, and her hands were trembling. 

“Give me a second, ok,” she said, and he nodded. She went into the bathroom and surveyed the damage in the mirror. There was a tear in her dress, her wig was hanging crookedly on her head, and her face was dusted grey with smoke and ash. With still-shaking hands, she pulled the wig off and tossed it into the garbage can, then tried to scrub some of the grime off of her skin. Nausea rose in her for a brief moment, but she forced it back, concentrating on the cool water. 

When she walked back out, she saw that Sark had cleaned himself up as well; he’d removed his jacket and slung it over the briefcase. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly, staring deeply into her eyes. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Sydney shook her head. “You?”

“I’m fine. Let’s get back before they start blocking off the street.” He put his arm around her waist, and she let him. 

 

The adrenaline was wearing off and as soon as they walked through the door to their room, she slid to the floor, where she put her head in her hands for a moment. Sark set the briefcase down and went over to her. Sydney sucked in a deep breath, raised her eyes. 

“Did all of that really just happen?” she asked. 

He nodded grimly. “I’m afraid so.”

She cast a wary glance over at the case, still hidden by his jacket. “What was it? The explosion—what caused it?”

“I have no idea. But the timing was certainly auspicious.”

Nausea twisted in her gut once again at the memory of Rosier collapsing. “I just…that man, he probably _died_ , and all I could think was that I needed to get the case. I should have tried to help him.”

Sark shook his head and knelt down beside her. “It wasn’t your responsibility to help him. The emergency services were on their way. We needed to get to safety.”

“Yes, but I _robbed_ him in the process. What’s happening to me?”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Would it help if I told you that Rosier was not a very good person?”

“I don’t know,” Sydney answered honestly. “Maybe.”

“He wasn’t. In fact, he was quite a bastard from what I’ve heard. And you were going to rob him anyway, as I recall. You were simply provided with the means to do so. And those means involved seizing opportunity where you could. We all make choices, Sydney. I…I believe in you, in the choices you make,” he added, brushing a tangled strand of hair out of her face. “Maybe I’m mad, but I do.”

She gave him a watery smile, steadying herself. There would be time to feel guilty later, right now she had more pressing matters to attend to. Nodding at the briefcase, she said, “So, let’s take a look at this thing, huh?” and scooted over to it, pulling the jacket off to examine it more closely. It was combination locked, looked very intricate. 

“I’ve seen these before,” Sark said, frowning. “Bulletproof. No real way of getting into it without the code.”

Sydney studied the lock for a moment, ran her fingers over it. In the meantime, he walked over to the bar and pulled out a small bottle of tequila, opened it and took a very long swallow, then returned to her side. “I’ve got to ask, how did you know to take it?” he wondered as he passed the bottle to her. “Was it like what happened in France?”

She shook her head as she took a sip. Her fingers felt numb and fumbling around it. “No, not like that.” She tried to recall exactly what it had been like, those few moments of absolute clarity, her senses so heightened that she could hear the beats of his heart. “I think…I don’t know. Something happened when you touched me, it was strange. Everything went very still and…I just knew.”

Sark seemed to be contemplating this for a moment. “Do you think we could re-create that?” he ventured.

“Hmm?” Syd asked as she drained the rest of the bottle, the liquor blazing a heated path down her throat. 

“Well, whatever spoke to you at that moment, it felt that you needed to have that case, so it probably also wants you to have what’s inside.”

“I guess,” she said, disliking the idea that some intelligent force with an agenda had invaded her life in such a drastic way. “I don’t know how we’re going to re-create that moment, though.”

“Not necessarily that particular moment, but more like whatever about it allowed you to experience your…intuition. What were you feeling specifically, right before it happened? It must have been triggered by something.”

Sydney frowned, trying to remember. The shock of the explosion made it briefly difficult to recall anything before.

“Um…well, earlier on you were talking about fading into the scenery. And I tried to do that, but then…we were sitting at the table and I kept staring at Rosier. I was scared out of my mind and then you, you know, started groping me at the table.” 

Sark rolled his eyes at this. “I did not _grope_ you. You always make me sound like such a lech.” 

“And,” she went on, ignoring him.“I don’t know, it was like a switch got flipped in my head, and I swear, everything was so heightened and clear and I just knew, beyond any shred of doubt. It’s crazy. _I’m_ crazy. Is there any more tequila?”

“You’re _not_ ,” he said, turning to grab another bottle from the bar.

“I am, or else I wouldn’t be doing any of this! Going undercover, stealing, getting possessed…”

“You’re not possessed,” he interjected, unscrewing the top and handing it to her. 

“No, not this last time, anyway,” she admitted, pausing to take a drink before going on, “It wasn’t so much that something was trying to invade my mind so much as bringing up what was already there, if that makes any sense.”

Sark nodded, was silent for a moment as he watched her sitting on the floor, chugging overpriced hotel liquor, then said, “I have an idea.” 

She looked at him, curiosity piqued. “What is it?” she asked, just a touch of wariness around the words. 

“Do you remember when I came over to your apartment and helped you study?”

“Of course,” she answered a bit too quickly, then winced. That particular evening had gone spectacularly south. 

He smiled. “As do I. I’m specifically referring to earlier that night, before you threw me out. I asked you to close your eyes.”

“Because other senses can be a distraction,” Syd recalled. “You wanted me to focus just on tasting the wine.” She wrinkled her nose as she looked at the half-empty little bottle in her hand. It was hardly top shelf. 

“You’re an intriguing woman, Sydney,” said Sark. “Capable of many things, I’m realizing. So many different extremes,” he murmured, his head tilted to the side, watching her in a way that made her warm. Or maybe it was the alcohol. “We have to heighten certain senses without overwhelming you.”

“My hearing, I think, was the most sensitive, then,” she recalled. “The knowing came as words. And my skin was, also…” Sydney took a moment to contemplate what might have happened had she not had a random psychic experience as he put his hand up her skirt. The thought made her a little dizzy, so she quickly tucked it away to be revisited at a later time.

“So you definitely responded to touch…and you say you felt like you wanted to run away?” 

“Yes, but I knew I couldn’t.”

“So you felt trapped.”

She nodded in confirmation, draining the rest of the bottle.

“I’m going to propose something a little unorthodox,” Sark told her. “But I think it could work.” 

“I doubt anything we do could be considered unorthodox at this point,” Sydney mumbled. “What are you proposing?”

“Would you let me tie you up?”

 

X

 

She’d gone a bit flushed at the suggestion, had tried to ignore the hot, squirmy feeling that was gathering inside of her. After a few moments of consideration Sydney had, tentatively, agreed, though part of her was screaming that she was insane for even considering letting Sark put her in such a vulnerable position. But then again, that was the _point_ , she told herself. To feel somewhat vulnerable.

So now, after they both had showered and her tequila buzz had worn off, she was sitting on the large hotel bed, wearing a robe. He hadn’t insisted on her being naked, but she was, underneath. It just seemed like the right way to be, in a situation like this, though she had no experience with such things. He carefully secured her wrists to part of the headboard with nylon rope. 

“Why do you have that?” she asked him, then added, “Do I really want to know?”

He just smiled at her, maddeningly. “Is your arm alright like this?” His fingers gently ran along the wound that had, amazingly, almost completely healed. The stitches were gone and now there was just a raised rose-colored scar that would fade in time.

She nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Just be careful not to pull too hard.”

“What makes you think I’ll be pulling at all?”

“Because I know you, Sydney.”

She made a face at him. “So what exactly are you going to do to me?” she asked.

“Whatever you need,” he answered, bringing fabric down over her eyes. She recognized it, the blue tie he sometimes wore. She liked that one. He knotted it at the back of her head and then she felt him move away, leaving her in darkness. Her heartbeat picked up pace.

“If you want me to stop what I’m doing, say red,” Sark told her. “Green means keep going. Ok?”

“Yeah, ok,” Sydney breathed. Then, she waited.

At first, there was nothing. Then he pressed a kiss against her lips, soft and warm. She hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t kissed her since _Before_ , and she hadn’t realized how much she had been missing it, because he kissed her like he meant it, like he was starved, desperate. Then he pulled back, just so that he could move to her neck, sucking a love bite into her skin, making her shiver. He raked her with his teeth, feeling her pulse beneath his lips, the warm rush of blood.

He slowly untied her robe, pushing it open, and she felt cool air against her heated skin. She heard his swift intake of breath as he saw that she was naked underneath and she couldn’t help but smile. His hands found her breasts, pinching one of her nipples, and she moaned. Apparently, he’d discovered during their time together that these were a particularly sensitive area for her. He was right, she was moving more, pulling gently at the ropes, arching her back.

“Already so eager,” he said, sliding a hand down between her legs. “Let’s see how wet you are.”

Very, Sydney knew, already. Embarrassingly so. Sark found her clit with his fingers and she jumped.

“Relax,” he encouraged softly. “You’re still tense, I can feel it.”

“I’m not!”

“You’re arguing with me, aren’t you? You’re supposed to be feeling. Try to get back to the place you were before.”

Helpless and half-insane, that was how she had felt then. Like the universe had made a terrible mistake. But alive. Beyond the fear, the doubt and insecurity, she’d felt alive. Sark always made her feel that way, even when she wanted to hate him.

Sydney suddenly recalled the night they spent in Paris, how good he’d felt underneath her, the feeling of her palm connecting with his face. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, slipping a finger inside of her. “ _That’s it_.” 

Trying to relax into the touch, she let the sensations spread all through her. He’d liked it. Maybe he’d let her do this to him. She wouldn’t be as nice as he was being now, no. She’d make him beg, and it would be amazing. To be in control like that. 

The feeling of his mouth between her legs quickly reminded her that at present she was very much _not_ in control, and that was the point. She was supposed to be…what?...oh yes, she was supposed to be expanding her senses in order to find the combination to the briefcase that she had stolen. Sydney wasn’t having any psychic experiences as of yet, but her senses were definitely expanding. She’d never let anyone do this to her before, had never anticipated that she’d like it this much. _Weird impulses_. She wondered what others she had. Forcing herself to breathe, to focus on oxygen, she quieted her mind and went still, just feeling…

He stopped, suddenly, and she whined. “Hey!”

“Sssh,” Sark scolded gently, kissing the inside of her thigh, tormenting her with lack of contact where she needed it, the throb between her legs quickly morphing into an ache. She could practically hear him smiling, hear the unspoken words, ‘ _you’re too eager, darling, be patient_.’ 

_Breathe_. It was difficult, but Sydney forced herself to accept the ache, not being fulfilled. His fingers found her again, reigniting the spark almost immediately to a raging inferno. Then stop. Then start again. Back and forth, torturously, until her nerve endings were so sensitive that she couldn’t take anymore.

Then, clarity. The feeling from before, only even stronger. She was _here_ , fully present, her mind blown open, light pouring in, the sense that her body was too solid and yet also weightless at the same time. Background and forefront. Visible and invisible, blurred and in sharp detail. Sydney didn’t know why, but she was thinking of the ocean again. Diving down, able to hide. A feeling that she was close to something ancient, could reach back through centuries. A feeling from within. Like there was a door, always there, just waiting to be opened. She recalled how much she had needed to get the case, how important it had seemed. 

_Maybe I’m a psychic archaeologist. Look, Mount Subasio. Why should I trust you? You lied about literally everything else_. Sunlight making patterns on the floor. The color of wine, all variations. Blood oranges. 

_I speak of forms_ … Sea, the smell of quiet. _I speak of forms changed_ …

His hand against her neck, like it belonged there.

Now, finally, she felt him, the head of his cock teasing at her entrance, waiting, torturing.

She smelled cologne and sex and fear and lingering smoke and adrenaline and them and them and them—

And he was inside of her; something shifted even further and then she was talking, or it felt like she was, she wasn’t sure, because Sydney felt as though she had left her body for a moment—then came the numbers, battering insistently against her mind, and where had they come from? Had they always been there?

_470935, 470935, 470935_

Her climax didn’t happen suddenly, it drew itself out until she was shaking and almost in tears; he was saying her name over and over, filling her. And it was too quiet, the moment too heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm. She felt his head rest briefly in the crook of her neck, hair damp with sweat, heart hammering in his chest, the weight of him both oppressive and perfect at the same time.

Two things she knew: _470935_ and _I am not the Chosen One_.

He moved, slowly, not wanting to leave her. She didn’t want him to leave, either—and yet she did.

 _470935\. I am not the Chosen One. But I am something_.

She waited for some witty line, or for him to call her a good girl. Instead, she felt his lips against hers again, the kiss dangerously deep, his hand against her face, voice so very soft when he released her and whispered, “I love you, Sydney.”

She froze. And then she started to cry, unable to stop herself, and it was all too fucking much all of a sudden. _Shut up!_ she wanted to scream, wishing like hell her hands were free so she could hit him because how dare he? _Shut up shut up shut up_. Not while she was vulnerable like this, not after everything.

“Untie me,” she hissed.

“Sydney? Are you—”

“Just fucking untie me!”

She felt the tension in him as he did so, his aura going cold and haunted and angry, all blood red and confused, undoing the rope around her wrists, letting her arms fall free. She yanked the blindfold off of her face and got up out of bed, pulling the robe back around herself, not looking at him. 

Three things she was certain of: _470935\. I am not the Chosen One, but I am something_. And, _I love you, too. I hate you, I love you_.


	15. Chapter 15

Sark cursed himself inwardly as he watched Sydney walk across the room. Why, _why_ had he said that? Especially given her tendency to run hot and cold. Her mood swings were giving him whiplash, and he wondered why he was putting up with it. He’d never really been in love before, just had casual dalliances—plenty of sex, but lacking any emotional component. He doubted that he’d ever even said those words to anyone, and yet suddenly he was spouting them off, to a mercurial woman who refused to even say his first name.

Warily, he watched as she knelt down in front of the case. Oh yes, the numbers. She’d been chanting them. He’d been so caught up in the heat of the moment, in the delicious feel of her, the way she’d looked tied to the bed, that he’d completely forgotten the goal of that particular…situation. Had she done it? His breath hitched in his throat as he watched her, jaw set and eyes aglow with determination as she slowly punched in the numbers. Then, astonishingly, the case clicked open. She lifted the lid, and he hurried over to her side.

“I did it!” Sydney exclaimed.

Inside the case was what looked to be a series of documents, on old parchment. She very carefully removed them. 

“What is it?” asked Sark, looking over her shoulder. Sydney frowned as she sifted through the papers. “I’m not sure,” she murmured. “It looks like more of Rambaldi’s writings. I think maybe there were more notebook pages that we didn’t know about.”

“What do they say?”

She turned another page, and he could see that it was covered in sketches, weird diagrams or blueprints for something.

“Here, this is odd,” she announced, pointing. He followed her finger to eight different sets of what looked like—“Are these latitudes and longitudes?” Sydney wondered excitedly. 

“That’s certainly what they look like,” he agreed, hurrying over to grab his laptop. “Read the first one to me.”

She obliged, and a few moments later his eyes widened in surprise. 

“What is it?” she asked, torn between wanting to know and wanting to run.

“Carcassonne. Specifically, the chateau where you found the bottle.”

Sydney’s mouth dropped open. “Do you know what this means? Maybe these are the exact locations of all the bottles!”

“I don’t know why there would be two sets of coordinates for each bottle, though,” he said.

Sydney shrugged. “Maybe they weren’t even really sure, they just had it narrowed down to two.”

“I don’t know…” Sark glanced down at the paper again, the one with the diagrams on it. “What is that?” he wondered. She passed it over to him, watched as he examined it.

“Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

Strangely enough, he had. More than once. “Yes,” he replied. “Not precisely the same, but similar enough. In the archives at CERN.”

“CERN?” she echoed.

“The nuclear research facility on the French-Swiss border,” he clarified. “I was doing work for the Intelligence Corps. This structure, machine, whatever it is,” he said, pointing to the page, “it has a very unique design, that’s how I recognized it.”

A little baffled, Sydney asked, “Well, what the hell is it? What does it do? Is it something nuclear?”

“I’ve no idea,” answered Sark, feeling very tired. The events of the past twelve or so hours were catching up to him all at once and he wanted sleep. No, not just sleep—he wanted oblivion. 

“How could it be, though,” she went on. “These drawings are hundreds of years old. They’re his work, I can tell. And he may have been ahead of his time or whatever but there’s no way he thought up nuclear technology, that’s _too_ impossible.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he ground out irritably. “I said they were similar, not identical. We have to find someone who can better tell us what this actually is or does. But also—”

“—We have to find the rest of the bottles,” Sydney finished. “What’s the next location on the list?” 

He typed in the two sets of coordinates. “Either Medina or Segovia,” he told her after a moment.

She nodded, then sighed. “Well, at least we’re already in Spain.” 

Sark did not want to go running after anything else; he wanted to forget that he’d ever been part of this madness, to forget that he’d ever known her. Though, he knew that Sydney didn’t have it in her to be intentionally cruel. He’d known cruel people, like Lauren Reed, who had gotten off on being sadistic, had treated people as objects whose worth was measured only by their usefulness to her. Sex with her had been exhilarating at first in its violence—he’d always liked it rough—but then terribly empty. It wasn’t anything like what he had now: Sydney was warm, while Lauren had been icy. Even when she was hitting him or clawing him, there was real emotion there, real passion. Whatever they shared, it had depth, was powerful. That time in the chateau, right before fate had decided to fuck with them so interestingly, had been one of the most mind-blowing encounters of his life, all fire and heat. He’d felt a connection on a level that he never had before.

His mind flashed back to the house in Malta, he and Sydney drinking and talking about parallel dimensions, other versions of them. She’d been so soft that day, so easily affectionate. No, it wasn’t hard to fall in love with her, and he’d wager that she’d broken his heart in every imaginable universe. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just give me some time to plan this out.”

Sydney nodded, growing suddenly very quiet, almost shy. The earlier tension went out of her face and she seemed thoughtful. “What should I do?” she asked. 

“I don’t care what you do,” he replied, the hurt from rejection still making him cold towards her. He was sorry, and yet not. Her expression didn’t change, though, she simply nodded and moved past him. 

 

Sydney went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While steam began to flood around her, she stared at herself in the mirror, half-frowning at her reflection while it disappeared, obscured by fog. She knew that Sark was angry with her, and he had a right to be. She’d rejected him, she’d been unintentionally cruel, and had made a mess of an already miserable situation. Damn it, what was _wrong_ with her? She loved him, too, but couldn’t bring herself to admit it—not aloud, anyway. Fuck, she couldn’t even bring herself to say his first name. _Intimacy issues_ would be an understatement. 

Though, part of her knew why: she was afraid of being abandoned. After her mother’s death and her father’s emotional and often physical absences from her life, Sydney had learned that love would only cause pain, that the people she loved would inevitably leave her. But Sark hadn’t left, he was still here. He’d lied to her, put her in danger, but at least he was currently trying to make things right. And so, she decided, she was going to have to try harder, too.

 

The shower cleared Sydney’s head and improved her mood, thankfully. When she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a robe, she saw Sark sitting at the desk with his laptop in front of him, saw how tired he looked, and a pang of sadness went through her. She walked over very quietly and stood behind him. He stiffened when she put her arms around him, but he didn’t pull away. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and felt him relax ever so slightly. “You just surprised me, that’s all. I was already in a vulnerable place, and I wasn’t expecting to hear that.” She slid her hand beneath his half-buttoned shirt and rested her palm over his heart, felt soothed by the steady thud. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever said that to anyone, and I’m not used to hearing it, either. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have feelings for you.” She moved so that she was facing him. She knew that there were tears in her eyes, decided not to fight them back this time. This level of honesty was raw, and painful, but it needed to be felt. “I do. And I know that I get moody, and I push you away…because it’s easier. I do it to protect myself. I’m not good at feeling…” 

She’d meant to say something else after that, but the words, whatever they were, had vanished and left her with just that statement: _I’m not good at feeling_. More tears ran down her face as she realized the truth of it. 

Sark’s expression softened and he sighed and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. “It’s alright,” he said. “My timing was never very good.”

Sydney sniffled a little, looked up at him with watery eyes. “Hey, but you know what?”

“What?”

“We got the case open. It was the weirdest, most unconventional plan, but it worked.”

He allowed himself to smile. “I honestly didn’t expect it to. I just wanted to see you tied to the bed.”

She laughed and brushed her hands over his hair. “Shut up.”

“There’s my girl,” he said. And she’s going to be the death of me, he added to himself.

As she absently toyed with the buttons on his shirt, she wondered, “Hey, do you think that maybe sometime I could do that to you? Tie you up, I mean.” Her face was slightly pink and she was avoiding looking directly at him, now.

Sark tried to ignore the way his blood rushed south at the thought. Sydney definitely had it in her to be dominant, he’d seen that side of her before, and wouldn’t mind seeing it again. “If you want,” he told her.

“I might want,” she admitted. Then she pulled away and got up from the table.

It was very early in the morning. Birds were beginning to chirp. Any residual adrenaline from the past several hours had finally worn off and now they were both just completely exhausted. Sydney knew that she was going to have to delve back into Rambaldi’s writings, very soon, and the thought tied her stomach into knots.

“I’m just gonna lay down for a minute,” she announced. Two minutes later she was out like a light, long limbs sprawled across the bed. With a sigh, Sark adjusted her and tucked her in, then gave in to his own fatigue and lay down beside her. 

He’d always had very vivid dreams, had never really understood the people who claimed to never dream at all. He’d been dreaming about Sydney since seeing her for the first time, across the crowded dining room of SD6. It wasn’t only that she was beautiful, there had been something utterly magnetic about her, the way she moved, it drew him in. Usually, in his dreams, she was always aloof, or treated him with outright hostility and violence. This dream, however, was different. He was walking up a staircase. It kept changing in appearance, shifting back and forth between old stone and modern steel. It led upwards and then stopped at a doorway which revealed a chamber that looked like a medieval laboratory of sorts, an alchemist’s workplace. Then the interior abruptly altered itself, becoming a sparsely decorated, ugly little room with white walls and grey carpet, like a generic office. Before Sark could blink twice, it returned to the lab again. 

In the corner of the room, movement caught his eye. A figure stepped out of the shadows, a woman. She was dressed all in black and had a veil over her face. Curious, he moved closer. As he reached up to pull it off of her and see who was underneath, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled around, and saw Sydney standing there, the one he’d come to recently think of as ‘alternate universe Sydney.’ Her expression was filled with sharp distrust. 

“What are you doing here?” She demanded. “You’re not supposed to be part of this.”

“Part of what?” he asked, unsure why he was bothering to argue with a dream.

“Don’t be an idiot.” She moved a little closer, narrowed her eyes like she was studying him. They stood facing each other for a long, silent moment. “Maybe you don’t know.” She seemed to be considering something. “Four keys,” she finally said, still glaring at him, like he was a snake. “Four keys to see into the Azure Mirror. One chance.”

He meant to ask her something else, but was woken suddenly by the real Sydney accidentally elbowing him in the face. Some nights she slept very fitfully, and this seemed to be one of those occasions. Sark didn’t really feel tired anymore, so he got up and turned on the television to see if there were any reports about the explosion. It had been a deliberate attack, it seemed, a small bomb that had been planted in the ceiling. There was only speculation about who might have been responsible. He wondered that, himself. He very much doubted that it was a coincidence. After this mess was over, he was definitely retiring. 

He scowled at the case, looking again at the drawing. Then he reached for his phone.

 

 

Sydney woke disoriented, and it took her a moment to remember where she was and why she was there. The events of the previous long day came rushing back and she almost wished that they hadn’t—those few moments of blissful ignorance had been nice. She could have been anyone, an ordinary woman waking up on vacation, perhaps. But, no. It took several cups of coffee for her to feel completely alive again; thankfully, it was very strong. 

“We’ve got to get moving soon, I’m afraid,” Sark told her. “You know what that means.”

“Yeah, I know,” she muttered.

“Try to figure out which of the locations we should try next,” he suggested. “Save us some time.”

And so, Sydney gathered the rest of the writings from the folder, the ones that they had brought. She sifted through them, but for some reason the energy was off. It felt inconsistent in a way that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. “I feel like there are pieces missing from this, like it was meant to continue, but it cut off,” she said. 

Sark shrugged. “Maybe those pieces weren’t important?” 

She gave him a look that said, _really?_ Then, she had an idea. She took the whole stack of papers out of the case. She had been correct, there were other notebook entries, underneath the coordinates and the weird diagram. 

“Son of a bitch,” whispered Syd as she pulled them out. She settled herself into a cross-legged position on the small sofa in the corner and started to read. 

 

After an hour, she had developed a slight headache. There was, infuriatingly, nothing. No insights, no pulling, just blankness. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. They needed to move forward, and to do that, they needed a destination. Rambaldi had very little to offer, at this point in his entries, it seemed that he was starting to go off the deep end a little. Much of it was continuous rantings about his mystery woman. He wasn’t writing love poems any more, which was a relief, but he was still obsessed. If anything, he was growing upset at her for being so illusive. 

_These visions, she brings me. Shows the place where the fractures exist, where time flows between, branching off like a river. Then slips into the cracks, out of my reach. I will not exist in torment any longer. What separates us is merely a curtain, and I will pull it down_.

“Stalk much?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. There were several more pages, but she didn’t have the energy to look at them. And she didn’t have the heart to tell Sark that she had nothing to go on. She chewed at her bottom lip as she pondered what to do next.

 

In the end, she decided to leave it up to chance, and chose randomly from the two coordinates; she picked the second one, which turned out to be Segovia, a city thankfully not far from Madrid. Sydney knew that if she was wrong she was going to set them back, but she had to offer _something_ , and didn’t want to tell Sark about the other insight she’d had while tied up: the certainty that she was not, in fact, the Chosen One. Would it make a difference? It wouldn’t change anything, she reasoned, they’d still be in the same predicament. It didn’t matter what she intuitively knew, in Sloane’s mind, and in the mind of these other people that Sark worked for, she was Chosen, and so she had a job to do. 

While Sydney began packing, Sark looked warily through the contents of the case again, not just the drawings but also the writings, something he hadn’t really done before. He’d glanced over them, sure, but not really given them much real consideration at the time, as he’d been firmly certain that it was all a bunch of crap. Now, perhaps they warranted a second look. 

For some reason, he was drawn to one of the final pages. When he reached the last lines, his eyes went wide, and a very strange, cold chill washed over him:

 _There is a way, I know it. I am thought to be mad, but I have seen the places where the very fabric of this world can be torn. And this is where the power can be harnessed, where I can begin work on my greatest achievement. The light that pours between the cracks is blue, such a deep shade, and in that light is a reflection of not only what is, but what could also be, and so I call it The Azure Mirror_.


End file.
